


Room for Rent

by zombie_socks



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s AU, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Abuse, Minor Self Harm, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Sexual Content, The SSR makes an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:03:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War is over but the battle has just begun. <br/>Natasha Romanov has been left with her late husband's dream: a farm outside of the big city. But the place is far from operational and Natasha's only source of income is her job at the phone company. She rents out a room in hope of keeping the place from slipping from her fingers.  <br/>Clint Barton has come back from the War with nothing but his duffle and nightmares. Traveling around the country looking for odd jobs, he comes across a room for rent on the East Coast. <br/>Together they help each other overcome the marks the War has left and come away with something more than they could have achieved on their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1946

 

 **It wasn’t an** easy thing, putting the sign up in the window, but it was necessary. If she was going to make ends meet she needed to have something other than her meager job at the phone company to bring home the bacon. But the hardship of the sign and its reality still stung.

The words were simple and heavy. Room for Rent.

It wasn’t an unorthodox notion; many of the other ladies at the phone company had lent out rooms. And like them, it was with a broken heart that the sign had been put up. She was far from alone in the loss of her husband.

James had been drafted as a GI when America went to war. She had known he went more readily that others and there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that he died the hero everyone told her he was. But it didn’t help stem the ache in her chest when she thought about how cold and empty the house was now.

And the emptiness was costing her. She had house payments to make. The money provided her from the army at James’s death went directly to paying for the farm and that exhausted it.

And it wasn’t like she had family to run to for help. She and James had been alone together to face the world. But then the world had gone to war and she’d gone to work. While James stormed Europe, she sat behind a switchboard and redirected the calls of housewives and widows, of businessmen and politicians. She patched through brief calls from the lines of scared boys to mothers and sweethearts, all the while playing with the ring she’d been given at their wedding three years earlier.

It had been an arranged relationship – a point she never advertised. She’d been ordered from overseas in Russia and delivered to her husband-to-be like a parcel of imported sweets. Mail order bride or not, James took care of her: fed her well, gave her money for a few nice clothes and simple pieces of jewelry. While the Red Room had crafted her into the perfect wife, James helped refine her into an American one. He drilled her accent out of her and even Anglicized her name from Natalia to Natasha.

She missed him.

But Natasha had never been one to dwell on death; there had been too much of it in her life for that. Orphaned at a young age and sent to the Red Room agency in her youth to become a product for sale, she thought of love as currency. She paid the price with her parents’ lives and for a while thought the world owed her something back. But the world seemed to only be interested in taking. It took her first potential spouse, Alexi, when he vanished over night and turned up dead in a river valley covered in frozen blood three days later. And it took James when war infected the Earth.

She’d paid and paid and paid and her only reward was to be known in whispers by her coworkers as The Black Widow.

She donned yet another black dress, applied her red lipstick, adjusted her hat, and made her way out the door and off to work.

She was in mourning, as many of the women at the phone company were. But she kept with the idea that mourning meant black, and so that was what she wore. So if the name they called her only stuck more from her efforts, so be it. Who was she to care what a bunch of gossipy housewives thought of her.

The day was boring and mindless as usual, but work was work and it put money in her pocket to pick up the groceries for that week.

She dove home in silence with the brown paper sacks in the back of the Ford Coupe her husband left her. And when she turned onto the familiar gravel path, just two miles south of town, she heaved a sigh at the weight of the darkness of her empty house.

But as she pulled up to the front steps, she found it might not be as empty as she thought.

Sitting on the front porch steps of the little grey farmhouse smoking a cigarette was an unshaven man of medium but powerful build with shoulders hunched in defeat and fear in his eyes. She knew that look well for she’d seen it on many men. This was a man coming back from hell.

“Good evening,” she greeted, trying to keep the slight hesitancy out of her voice.     

The man nodded back. “That room still for rent, ma’am?”

Midwestern accent, she noted, for his words drawled more than the clipped New England dialect she had been taught.

“It is,” she went on, collecting her bags from the backseat of the car.

“How much?”

“Thirty a month, meals included.”

He nodded again acceptingly. Rubbing the back of his neck, he asked, “Don’t ‘spose I could move in now?”

Natasha glanced at the steps and saw a single, olive green duffle sitting there along with an oblong black case. She didn’t ask if that’s all he had; she could tell it was everything to his name.

“Oh,” he started, “I’ve got fifteen with me. I can get the rest by the end of the week.” He held out the money at arms length towards Natasha and there was something in the gesture that read he was not used to such transactions. You don’t hold money out that way, in a waving, begging hand that bleeds desperation. But with a sigh she took it and tucked it in her pocket.

“Meals will be served at set times and you are expected to alert me if you are unable to make it. Laundry is done on Saturdays.” She watched him flick the rest of the cigarette butt to the ground and put it out with the toe of his boot. “And all smoking is to be done outside the house.”

She reached for her groceries only to find him right behind her offering to take them. She passed them off if only so she could dig her key out easily from her handbag.

“Could I please have your name?” she asked as she unlocked the door and held it for him. She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen so he could set down the grocery bags.

“First Lt. Clinton Barton of the eight-oh-sixty-third, special ops, ma’am.” He paused and blinked a few times, coming out of the military mindset. He was much quieter when he added, “But you can just call me Clint.” 

She gave him a small smile and went to begin putting away the groceries. “I knew you were military. You have that look.”

“A lot of us got that look now, ma’am.”

“Natasha,” she corrected. “Call me Natasha. And I’m aware of that.”

Clint didn’t move or make any indication of doing so, so Natasha forwent the food and told him she’d show him to his room.

The simple farmhouse had its bedrooms upstairs, one slightly larger than the other. While James had often talked of children, they’d been unable to conceive before he’d been sent to the front. Any dream of a nursery died with him, and so Natasha had kept the spare room as just that, an extra space for visitors.

The bed sat nestled in the corner by the far window, a chest of drawers was placed opposite. A lamp and chair took up the remaining little space along with a tiny bookshelf left bare.

“Bathroom is down the hall. You may have the second drawer to the right of the sink for your things.”

Clint nodded in acceptance.

“Dinner will be ready soon. Unpack, wash up, and I’ll see you downstairs.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He winced. “Natasha.”

She left him to it.

About halfway through dinner preparations, she heard the shower start up and mentally kicked herself for not telling him that her wash was hung up behind the curtain to dry. Nothing said welcome like a rack of damp brassieres. She prayed he wouldn’t make a comment.

It was only half answered.

When Clint Barton descended the stairs he looked like a new man. He’d shaven, revealing his square jaw and a white with age scar that sat crooked on the underside of his chin. He looked more human, with fresh clothes and washed sandy blonde hair that was still a little long and shaggy. His cheeks were flushed in pink and he was rubbing at the back of his neck again.

“Sorry about your laundry,” he mumbled.

“Sorry I forgot to mention it,” she replied, but kept her tone cool and distant. The last thing she needed was a social debacle over her unmentionables. Every woman wore them; what was the big deal?

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she redirected.

He took a seat at the table on her command and she brought the glass dish of salad and a plate of rolls to start off before going back to fetch the roast. It was a gracious meal, and one she hoped would last them for a day or two. But men had healthy appetites; she knew that.

He politely waited for her to take her seat before he dished himself out his food onto his plate. She noted his lack of saying grace before he tucked into the meal, though she didn’t base too much judgment of that. A soldier didn’t always have time to waste praying to a god who dumped him into a violent, bloody pit of Hell.    

“Are you okay with leftovers?” she inquired after a few bites of her own meal.

He looked at her like it was the silliest question he’d ever been asked. With a shrug he answered, “Grew up dirt poor. Leftovers would’a been a comfort.”

His reply explained his elbows on the table and the way he practically wolfed down his meal. Paired with the previous beard and dirty clothes, Natasha got the feeling this was the first decent meal he’d had in awhile.

She let the silence continue on for a few minutes before taking up polite small talk with, “Where are you from, Mr. Barton?”

“It’s Clint,” he reminded her. “And I was born in Iowa, grew up kinda all ‘round the Midwest.”

“Family moved a lot?”

“You could say that.” He took another bite and Natasha got the feeling his past was a sore point. She knew from enough people and her own experiences that the war was also off limits. So if the whole of the past was forbidden, then she’d focus on the present.

“If you’re looking for work, there’s a guy in town who’s known for hiring vets.”

“Oh yeah? What’da they do?”

“Business mostly. He hires guys to be traveling sales men.”

Clint frowned at that. “Thanks, but… not really my thing.” They were quiet for a bit more before he asked, “Any farms need a hand?”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks,” he repeated. “And thanks for letting me rent.”

Natasha waved it off and the rest of the dinner was quiet. He helped her take the dishes to the kitchen to be washed up and even lingered to dry them. He stacked them neatly, with a concentrated precision that could only be born of patience and discipline. Natasha put the dishes away and informed him that she was going to retire to her room. “Breakfast will be at seven.”

“Yes, ma’am. Natasha.”

She palely smiled at him. “You’ll get it eventually.”

She sat up and read for a few hours, feeling a little awkward for having abandoned her guest to his own devices. But she stopped and reminded herself that he was a renter and not a guest. It was not her duty to entertain him.

She shut off the light and curled up to sleep, wondering briefly what her late husband would have thought about the man in the room down the hall from her.

She awoke to screaming, to tortured cries of a man who had spent time in trenches and bunkers. She groggily wondered if she should check up on him, but eventually the yells subsided and she chose to ignore the barely audible whimpering that followed. She turned over and was unsurprised when she heard the door to his room open and his footfalls down the stairs. The screen door squealed his exit and Natasha let out a breath that was part sympathy, part grief, and part relief. She mourned her husband, but a part of her remained glad that she would never have to see the scars the war left on him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Natasha awoke early** , dressed in everyday clothes, and went downstairs to start on breakfast. She was halfway through lying bacon in the pan to fry when Clint came down the stairs looking ragged and rough, like a wild animal. He was dressed in a grey suit that didn’t fit through the shoulders and was too loose in the waist, as if it had been originally made for a heavier man. The pants had long ago lost their front pleats and his shoes were scuffed. The band around his hat, which sat next to him on the table, was faded and sported a tattered hole on the left side. His shabby hair mixed with his feral eyes and the ill-fitted suit made him look… pathetic. Natasha debated about telling him to get new clothes or else not a soul would hire him, but she had the feeling this man wouldn’t take too kindly to being reminded about his situation. She figured he knew very well how untamed he appeared. But perhaps that was all he could afford.

She plated him up some eggs and bacon and he added a slice of toast from the dish she’d set out earlier.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” he responded, a note of hope in his eyes. She poured him a mug, hung up her apron, and then took a seat. He downed the black liquid like it was lifeblood. She stood up to get him a refill but he beat her too it, bringing the pot over and setting it on a towel near his plate.

She sipped her own, silently letting him drain the last of the bitter beverage before he was even finished with his meal. She mentally made a note to stock up on the stuff.

“My shift is from nine to four thirty,” she announced, setting down her mug and finishing off her eggs. “If you need a ride into town and back,” she supplied off his questioning look.  

“Thanks,” he muttered. He took another long swig of coffee, finishing off the last of it before clearing his throat. “Sorry if I woke you last night. The screaming and all.”

Natasha hummed a little, swallowing her breakfast and dabbing her lips on her napkin. “Does it happen a lot?”

He avoided her eyes. “More than I’d like it to.”

She got up and began gathering dishes. “I’m sure you’re not the only one.” She dumped the plates in the sink and began washing them, leaving Clint alone at the table. He played absently with the coffee mug’s handle until she was done and went upstairs to change for the day. She dressed in a black, thin skirt, matching jacket that cinched at her small waist, and black heels. She pinned up her unruly red hair and applied her crimson lipstick, keeping with her mourning clothes.

She found Barton had dried and put away the dishes, apparently having learned their places in the cabinets from last night. His hat was in his hands, his finger poking in and out of the hole distractedly.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

He made no indication to take the driver’s seat, allowing her to take the wheel. She appreciated that deeply. After the men had come home from overseas, the women had been expected to just fall back into their roles as docile adornments and perfect mothers. But that taste of capability, of earning wages and doing something far more important than hosting afternoon tea, had left many women with a yearning to do more, be more. They could drive and build ships, be doctors instead of nurses, business owners instead of secretaries.

During the war her spot at the telephone company had given her a prime position in domestic espionage. She’d been hired (secretly) to take notes on any and all suspicious phone chatter, to relay orders of politicians to company clerks for generals, to help bring down der Führer and all of his drones from this side of the battle front.

And now she connected chatty housewives to other chatty housewives to gossip.

To drive to and from work may have seemed small in comparison, but it was something she could hold on to in the way of independence.   

The ride was silent with the only incident being Clint’s increased tension when the car hit a pothole. She wondered how many times over there that meant they’d be dead from some kind of explosive in the road.

She parked behind the operating building and pointed him in the direction of the man who took on vets as salesmen in case he changed his mind. Clint nodded once in understanding. Natasha pointed down the street the other way and recommended a place for lunch if he got hungry then left him standing there with his hands in his pockets looking lost and confused. Shaking off the saddening image, she clocked in, donned her headset, and went to her station.  

It was another call from a terrified boy to his mother, begging to come home that made her look forward to her break. The sheer number of broken soldiers looking for a home to come back to pulled on her heart. Her mind wandered to James and how, though he would have had a home with her, he wouldn’t have had a mother to cry to. Like her, James’s family had passed, although not at the same tender age as hers. It’d been before the start of the war when his parents had fallen ill with tuberculosis. Their death was part of the reason he joined up.

Natasha gathered at the small room in the back where a tiny stove ran to heat up pots of water and jars of coffee grounds nested in cabinets. Often one of the women would bring in a fresh pie or cake or other dessert for the ladies to nibble on as the day slowly waned. Pepper Potts was pouring herself a cup when Natasha walked in.

Pepper worked at the operating building but as the secretary to the owner, Mr. Keene. The man was a pig, always dropping papers on the floor so Pepper would have to bend over to pick them up. He called her degrading names and made advances towards her, that, no matter how many times she rebuffed him, he never took a hint. Her only reprieve was her mid-morning coffee break. 

“Busy morning,” the woman asked.

Natasha shrugged noncommittally. “No more than usual.” She silently added, _though far more boring now that the Nazi’s are gone._     

“Nat,” Pepper addressed almost hesitantly if a woman of such conditioning to deal with corporate bullshit could be hesitant. “I was wondering if… that is…”

“Spit it out, Pep.”

Pepper took a sip of her coffee and smiled. “Well, you know how my boss is always trying to kiss up to the big guys.”

Natasha nodded.

“Well he’s really done it this time. He’s invited the Starks to dinner.”

“ _The_ Starks?”

“All three. The husband, wife, and,” she practically shivered, “Tony.”

Having only met Tony Stark, son of eccentric billionaire and weapons supplier for the Second World War, once, Natasha’s impression was still heavily swayed by Pepper’s complaints. But that one impression had been enough to gather the basics. Tony Stark was a spoiled rich kid with a dangerous combination of brains and daddy’s money. If he wasn’t drinking or wooing some poor woman into bedding down with him, he was engrossed in some creation or invention. (After drunkenly throwing up on Pepper’s dress the man had sent an apology in the form of an icebox with a cranny build into it that housed a lever she could push for ice cold water straight out of the door. He’d tried to explain the process to her, something about condensation of the moisture in the air or something, but Pepper didn’t follow. She kept the icebox but never used the special contraption either out of spite or fear that it would blow up or poison her. Natasha for one couldn’t blame her.)      

“He wants me to put them up,” Pepper continued. “They’ll only be here a few days, but I don’t think I could survive a single night with Tony Stark in my house.” She looked to her somewhat friend, eyes pleading. “And I figured you still have that room for rent so…”  

Natasha set down her coffee slowly and looked on the woman before her with pity, shoving down her relief to hide it. “Actually, Pep, that room was rented just last night.”

Pepper raised a dubious brow.

“I’m not lying,” Nat defended, putting her hands up in an innocent gesture. “His name is Clint Barton, he’s a vet. He rode with me into work so if you want proof meet me in the parking lot at four thirty.”

Pepper waved her off with a hand. “I believe you, Nat.” She finished her coffee in a one fell swoop and rinsed her mug out in the sink. “But I may be out there to meet him anyway. You never know,” she leaned a little promiscuously on the doorframe, dramatically placing the back of her hand on her forehead, “it could be destiny.”

Natasha shook her head but laughed gently at Pepper’s show and wished her luck with the Starks. She made a mental note to check up on her in the next few days.

With her shift finally over, Natasha made her way to her car, finding Barton leaning on the back bumper, smoking a cigarette. He put it out when she came over and asked if he was ready to go.

She pulled out of the lot, inexplicably relieved that Pepper didn’t in fact show up, and was down the road a ways before she tried for conversation. Suspecting that inquiring if he found a job would be fruitless, she went with, “Did you enjoy lunch?”

Clint bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. “I uh… I forgot to.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You forgot to eat?”

“Yeah,” he admitted with a sigh.

“Didn’t you get hungry?”

“Well now that you mention it…yeah. I guess I am.”

She regarded him with a long look, studying his expression only to have him look away and out the window. The car hit another bump, and once more he tightened in anticipation. His eyes scanned the area lightning fast but came up empty. Since nothing exploded he relaxed a degree, but the frustration never left his body.

Natasha went on, trying to be discrete about checking him over.

Suddenly he drew in a sharp breath and ran his fingers through his hair.

“You wanna know what the hardest thing is?” he asked, annoyance spewing out. “It’s not the nightmares or the blood or reliving every godforsaken moment of death and destruction. No. No, it’s all the choices. See, over there, everything is planned out for you: what to wear, what to eat, when to wake up, when to sleep. Someone else decides all that for you. Even in a prison camp, someone else tells you want to do every step of the way. It’s just in German.

“But then you get back home and suddenly it’s ‘do you want cheddar or Swiss, rye or wheat?’ ‘I don’t know! Just make me a goddamn sandwich!’” He turned towards her. “Do you know I can’t sleep past five in the morning? It doesn’t matter how hard I try or what time I went to bed or how often I was up shaking off nightmares. Come five AM, I’m wide-awake. Over there I was begging for sleep, even came close to spilling government secrets just so they’d let me nod off instead of suffering through the deprivation. But now that I’m here, I can’t close my eyes past five.

“And that’s another thing. For the first few months, I couldn’t tell time. People would talk about getting together for dinner at seven and I’d be all confused because seven was in the morning. Nineteen hundred, that was the evening.

“But that’s nothing compared to when they ask you what you’re gonna do next. I don’t know. I have no idea! Everything I was good at is no longer valid. Unless _you_ need someone sniped off a guard tower from a tree hundreds of feet away. You know? I was good at killing. And surprise, surprise when you come back home, that’s not really needed anymore. So don’t ask me, tell me! Tell me what to do!”

Natasha remained quiet while Clint continued to stare out the window, some of the anger drained out of him.

“Sorry,” he murmured. But then scoffed and corrected, “No. You know what? I’m not sorry. And _that’s_ the hardest part. Everyone just expects us to march back home and be fine. Well we’re not fine. We have problems. Ugly problems. And not all of us can sit through parades and ceremonies and tell of the glories of war. Because you know what? It’s bad news.” He ran a hand over his face. “It’s goddamn bad news.”

He folded his arms over his chest and blew out a long, shaky breath. Natasha gripped the wheel a little tighter. It was the most she’d heard him speak in the short few hours she’d been in his presence, but she got the feeling that his rant wasn’t something that he blurted often. A part of her felt almost honored at it. But she was mostly still reeling at his outburst. A glance in his direction reveled that he appeared to be trying to apologize again, but his previous statement was preventing him from doing so.

So instead of aching silence and pending apologies she stated, “Seven.”

“What?”

“That’s about how many calls a day I get from young boys trying to make sense of their lives. Some are begging to go back home, others just looking for someone to tell them what to do next.” She looked over at him and managed a small smile. “You’re not alone. And you don’t have to pretend.” She focused back on the road. “At least not around me.”

He didn’t say anything but instead let out a deep sigh as if the world had fallen a little bit more from his broad and tired shoulders.

She wasn’t sure what made her do it but with a deep breath she muttered, “My husband died over there.”

“Guess I kinda figured that. Sorry.”

“Yeah. It hurts, knowing he’ll never make it home.” She pulled into the gravel driveway. “But sometimes I wonder if he was lucky that way.”

The car came to a stop. Natasha killed the engine and gathered her stuff. For a long moment Barton didn’t move until Natasha was out of the vehicle and ready to close the door.

Right before it slammed shut, he quietly stated, “Sometimes I would agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey ya!   
> So as you can tell in this version, Howard and Maria had Tony awhile back and he's actually like in his late 20s. It works this way, I promise. 
> 
> Clint's troubles with coming back after war are a mixture of some interviews I saw on a PBS program years ago and somehow retained, some issues I heard about with my own grandfather (who was a WW2 vet), and my own characterization. 
> 
> I know this chapter was a little short, but the next one is longer and a little less "fillery." 
> 
> Thank you to all those who have read, commented, bookmarked, and Kudos-ed!!!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**She was dreaming** of rolling through a dewy meadow. James stood at the top of the flowered hill, arms folded over his chest but a smile on his face. Their marriage was never a close one, nor was it full of physical contact. She’d been bought for him and she was his. But that didn’t mean there was no love there. It was just a colder love. Where some had a burning red-hot forge, their relationship was the cooled steel, strengthened, hardened.

The dew clung to her clothes and hair, and as she rolled to her back, a drop fell from the petal of a daisy and landed on her forehead. She laughed as it trailed down and then another one landed in the same spot, following the same path. By the time the third one landed, the dream began to shift into a cold room with red walls. She was asked a question in Russian but she found she couldn’t answer. Another drop landed. The question was repeated but still her tongue stayed still. Another drop. And another and another.

It was torture.

The repetition of the drop in the same spot on her face over and over again until there was nothing left but it’s cold landing and slow trailing. This was a memory. They used it on her to learn obedience, to not question what might be asked of her as a bought bride.

The question. No answer. The drop.

The question. No answer. The drop.

The question. No answer. The drop.

Her eyes flew open to find her face and pillow soaked with water. A look out the window confirmed the driving sheets of rain that pounded the pane and, as she looked up and was greeted with another drop to her face, leaked through the ceiling. She sighed and got up to grab buckets and pans to catch the leaks in all of their annoying drip points.

Clint’s door opened when she was placing a large tin can under the leak in the bathroom.

“Got a spare one of those?” he asked in a groggy voice. He was dressed in an army green T-shirt and his cotton under shorts with mismatched socks on his feet. Lit by the single yellow bulb of the bathroom light he looked faded, like he was only halfway there.

Natasha handed him an old tarnished bucket with a dent on the side. “Only the one?”

“Yeah. But the sucker keeps landing right here.” He pointed to the center of his chest. “Kinda makes it hard to sleep.”

“Tell me about it. Mine keeps landing on my head.”

He smiled sleepily at that. “Well looks like I’m on the floor for the night. That or find a way to balance this on my chest.” He held the bucket up and examined it as if considering a way that could happen.

“You can take the couch downstairs,” Natasha offered.

“But you got one leaking on you. Where you gonna sleep?”

“I have another side of the bed.”

“Oh. Right.” He tipped the bucket towards her in what might have been reminiscent of a salute had he been more awake. “Night.”

She finished placing containers under the various leaks and went back to bed, curling up on the opposite side. James’s side.

It smelled like him, like hair oil, cologne, and shoe polish. Strong scents for a strong man.

She fell asleep to thoughts of her late husband but her next dream didn’t have him standing at the hill; it had Barton sitting there instead.

 

The morning brought blinding sunshine and Natasha felt relieved that she wouldn’t have to worry about the buckets being large enough to hold a full day’s worth of rain.

She got up and made breakfast, checking the stairs for her renter. He didn’t come down and for a moment she wondered if maybe his whole speech about not being able to sleep past five was fake. But just as she was plating the last of the hot cakes from the skillet he walked in from the front door.

Clad in dusty jeans and another army green T-shirt, he nodded to her as he toed off his muddy boots and washed off his hands in the kitchen sink.

“Did you go for a walk?” she asked as he sat down across from her.

“Yeah, actually. It’s a nice place you’ve got here. How many acres?”

“Fourteen. But James didn’t have much time to get it going as farm ground before he was drafted.”

“Yeah, I noticed the barn looks about as fallow as the fields.” He smeared butter on the cakes and cut them into sloppy triangles.

“He had a dream,” Natasha started, trying not to get too somber, “of moving from the big city where he grew up to have a quiet life out here.”

There was nothing but the clanging of forks and knives on plates before Clint asked, “How’d ya meet?”

Her mind flashed to the immediate cover story, the one she and James decided on long ago. But one look at the man before he had her stuttering to a stop. His eyes were open, honest, and for the first time she noticed just how beautiful they were. Colored a nice blue-green in the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, she couldn’t help but think they were eyes she could trust. And maybe it was his honesty yesterday that had her breaking down.

She swallowed her bite of breakfast and washed it down with a sip of coffee. “He ordered me.”

Barton’s brows narrowed.

“I was a mail-order bride from Russia,” she finished, stabbing another piece of hot cake.

“Oh,” was his only response.

“Don’t be misled,” she instructed softly. “We loved each other. It just wasn’t there at the start.”

Clint took a long swig of coffee and a few more bites before chiming in with, “Still don’t seem right. Starting off a marriage without love.”

“You ever been married?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then how would you know?”

It took a small moment, but he smiled and nodded at that, admitting she had a point.

Cleaning off the table, Natasha announced, “You should probably change if you’re going into town.”

“Actually I was going to stay here today,” he replied, finishing off his second cup of coffee.  

Natasha studied him for a second before shrugging. It was his choice, so long as she got her rent money at the end of the week.

When she left he was still sitting at the table polishing off yet another cup of coffee. She told him she would be back a little bit before five and then left this near stranger in her house for the day.

She prayed it would remain in one piece.

When she returned, the house was indeed still standing. She entered, unsure of where Clint was currently located. She didn’t see him as she changed out of her work attire and into other clothes and an apron to start on the fried chicken for dinner. She gathered up the cans and buckets full of rainwater from last night on her way to the kitchen. Balancing them in her arms she began to descend the stairs when a loud thumping up above resounded scaring her near to death.

It resounded again and she almost dropped the buckets she was carrying. The sound traveled along the roof in what her adrenaline-riddled brain now recognized as footfalls.

_What the…_

She set the buckets at the top of the stairs and ran outside. Looking up and, shading her eyes from the lowering sun, she found a silhouetted figure straddling the roofline and hammering away.       

“Clint?” she called out.

The figure turned to her. “Natasha?”

“What are you doing?”

“Patching the roof.” His form shrugged on the end as if to suggest his actions were completely obvious.

She wanted to question it but found the idea of yelling at him from two stories below unfavorable. “Okay,” she shouted back. And having nothing left to say on the matter she added, “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes, still holding onto the wish that he’d drop that. But military training was military training and it stayed with an individual for the rest of his life.

The sun set just as dinner was prepared and with it’s falling to the horizon came Clint’s footsteps at the front porch. Leaving his dirty boots outside he came in covered in sawdust and pitch.

“Dinner’s ready,” Natasha told him, drying her hands on a towel.

He nodded. “Give me a few minutes to clean up and I’ll be down.” He started for the stairs then stopped, adding, “Smells really good.”

They ate in silence for the most part before Natasha couldn’t keep it contained any longer.

“You fixed the roof?”

He looked at her, drumstick still in his hands halfway to his mouth. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” she responded, her mouth threatening to drop open. “It’s a huge favor.”

“Ain’t that much trouble, really. Just a few new shingles in the right places with a pitch seal. I was just glad you had the fixings for it.”

“Where did you find what you needed?”

“The barn. There’s actually a good supply out there.” He looked down at his plate, hesitating. “If you’d like I could fix up some other things ‘round here. Get this place in gear for spring if you’d want ta plant somethin’ in the ground.”

“I’d love that,” she admitted instantly.

“You mean it?”

“Yes.” She looked at him, trying to find out why he’d think she’d turn down his offer.

“Didn’t want to step on your late husband’s dream,” he answered as if he’d read her mind.

“You’d be making it come true,” she countered. And at the idea of getting the farm running she leapt at the opportunity to make it happen as easily and quickly as possible. “In fact don’t… don’t worry about the rent. Just get this place going by spring.”

“You mean that?”

“Absolutely.”

His grin was brilliant, beaming from ear to ear as he responded, “Yes, ma’am,” then caught himself with a wince, “Natasha.”

She smiled back. “You’ll get it eventually.”

It rained again that night but not a single drop of water fell through the roof.  

 

The next morning Clint came down to breakfast to find a piece of paper sitting at his place on the table. He picked it up carefully, flitting his eyes over to where Natasha was dishing up breakfast. He read through it, struggling with the words here and there. (Reading never had been a strong point for him with all those unstable letters.)

“What’s this?” he asked once Natasha sat down, handing him his plate.

“Your itinerary.”

He gave her a smirk and reached for the butter. “You giving me orders now?”

“No, a schedule. You said so yourself that making decisions is the hardest part, right?”

He nodded.

“Well now I’ve taken some of them away. You have to decide whether you want roast beef sandwiches or chicken for lunch, but I’ve given you a time to eat it at.” She took a bite of her breakfast and chewed methodically, watching him all the while.

He studied the paper some more, then set it down with a nod of acceptance and approval.

They ate in silence but before clearing the table, Natasha heard him mutter, “thanks,” and she knew that word had more weight in it than what its six letters could really hold.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slipping in on the bell ropes getting this post in on Sunday. It's been a busy and weird week.   
> Enjoy the update! 
> 
> And, as always, thank you to those who read, comment, Kudos, and bookmark! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a line that could be considered offensive/racist. I have period-typical racism tagged, I've warned you, and I'm sorry. Please don't take away my cookie.

**A week or** two passed. Natasha maintained her shift at the phone company and Clint stayed on the farm, fixing various things, working on projects.

When the sink clogged up, Natasha rolled her eyes at the event once more taking place. She’d been fighting that particular battle even before James had left for war. So when Barton offered to fix it she felt relieved and then skeptical when he asked her to pick up yogurt for it. She didn’t question it as she watched him spoon the white, creamy substance down the drain. He let it set for hours, going off to work on the back wall of the barn that had received some wind damage last year. He came back in in the evening, boiled some water on the stove, ran it down the drain and declared it fixed.

Natasha tried not to appear surprised when she found it actually was.

“Okay, mastermind,” she started, folding her arms over her chest. “Where did you learn that?”

Clint bit his lip and rubbed at his neck. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

He sighed. “The circus.”

She raised a brow.

“Told you.”

“Wait. So you’re serious? The circus?”

“Cross my heart.”

Natasha tilted her head. Normally she’d let him off the hook, allow him to keep his secrets to himself – God knows she had her own to stay hidden, buried deep inside her. But this was too out there and she demanded an explanation for it.

“Ma died when I was little,” he relented. He blanched some and Nat could tell there was more to that particular point of the story than he really was willing to share. “My brother and me ran away to the circus shortly there after. I stayed there with him until I joined up.”

“What did you do? In the circus?” she furthered.

“Well I started off bein’ a roustabout, helping put up tents, mucking out cages, straightening up the makeup trailer. Then I got into an act. As an assistant, of course. I stood there and let this purple-tighted guy in a tunic throw knives at the board behind me.”

“You weren’t scared?”

“Not really. I’d seen him throw before, knew he was tops. And in any case the guy taught me how to throw them in return. Turned out I was damn good shot.”

Natasha remembered his outburst from when he’d first come and his mentioning of him being a sniper. Knives must’ve translated into bullets then.

“Then Trick got in on it and taught me archery and I um…” he rubbed his neck again, “kinda got an act of my own.”

Natasha smiled almost slyly. “You don’t say. Anything I might have heard of?”

“Probably not,” his voice took on the same slightly joking quality as hers. “Just, you know… The Amazing Hawkeye: World’s Greatest Marksman.”  

Nat’s hand flew to her chest “Well all be. And here he is standing in my kitchen. Oh what a dream come true.”

Clint smiled, accepting her mocking gracefully. “You could’ve just said no.”

“Where would the fun in that be?”

He rewarded her smile with one of his own.

But the conversation lulled and hung awkwardly in the air until Natasha cleared her throat and asked, “So since you were such an attraction, I guess it was a letter from Uncle Sam that made you quit?”   

“Actually it was the Japs bombing the harbor. After that, you know, shooting paper targets just didn’t seem like enough. So I signed up, faking probably half of the information on my enlistment form. I didn’t even have an address to fill in. So I put Waverly, Iowa since that’s where I was born, figuring if they checked anything, I’d at least have records there. ‘Course they’d also see that I hadn’t had any schooling since nineteen twenty-eight. But I could read enough to follow orders, I guess. That and there were so many guys behind me that all needed to get run through, so no one was looking too closely at the paperwork.”

He stopped as if that was the end, as if nothing else came after that sentence. He didn’t offer any stories of what he did overseas nor of training. And Natasha had noticed he didn’t talk about any of his army buddies. She wasn’t sure which scenario she found less acceptable, that he didn’t have any or that none of them made it home.

Clint leaned on the back of the kitchen chair; his broad hands wrapped tightly around the spines of the back braces. He had scars on them, and odd callouses that she suspected were from his days of using a bow. He looked lost in thought and she suddenly realized he’d slipped away to the terror of the war. A craving came over her to pull him away, to toss him a safety line and reel him back to shore before he drowned. But she wasn’t sure what to say to do that so she instead rose from the table to get herself a glass of water. And maybe it was the pull of his sudden descent into memory, but she found herself saying, “James was drafted.”

Clint looked up and over at her, blinking slowly as he returned to the present.

Natasha went on, “Although I’m pretty sure he would’ve left anyway.”

“What kept him here?”

“Me.” She stopped and turned to correct herself. “That is I didn’t want him to go, to leave me alone. I couldn’t stand the idea of him bleeding out in some trench over there and me being left here to start up this place without him. But he wanted to go, said it was his duty. And look what happened.” She tossed the dishrag into the basin just to give her hands something to do with the anger that was bubbling up inside her. “You went freely and came back here all shell shocked and damaged and he was made to go and fell off a cliff.” She took in a steadying breath before facing him. “I’m sorry.”

Clint looked unfazed at her reaction. After a moment he reached for her arm saying, “Follow me.”

He led her to the back part of the barn where he had spent the day tearing out the damaged boards and stacking them in a pile. On the pile, by the fading light of sunset, Natasha noticed two black rings sloppily painted on and accentuated by a solid, center dot. A target. Her eyes scanned the immediate area and found a beautiful wooden bow, strong, hand-carved, and gently curved on the ends. Clint moved passed it, though, and brought out a canvas bundle. He rolled it out on the makeshift workbench and Natasha’s eyes roamed over the various blades held within.

“Throwing knives,” Clint supplied. Then, “Go ahead. Pick one up.”

Natasha’s fingers curiously danced over her vast selection until she came across a small, silvery one with a simple carved wooden handle.

Clint examined the way she held it in her hand and approached her carefully, both talking her through and showing her all the corrections on her hand position she needed to make. He explained the way her wrist needed to move and how the action should feel. Then he positioned her in front of the ramshackle target and told her to give it a try.

Natasha relaxed the way he told her to, letting out her breath slowly. She sized up the target, evened her breathing, and released.

The blade landed in the upper right quadrant of the center dot. She felt a thrill rush through her, flooding her systems and shoving away her previous anger and sorrow.

“Great job,” Clint praised, handing her a similar knife. “Try another.”

And so it went until the sun bedded itself down below the horizon. Natasha had sunk knives all around the center circle, though still missing the exact center. Clint told her she just needed practice, and the idea of being able to do this made her heart leap in anticipation.

But before they went inside, she challenged him with a grin. “Alright, Hawkeye, let’s see you shoot.”

Clint didn’t react for a moment but eventually relented and went to his bow. He strung it expertly and groped around for a stray arrow on the workbench. By the fading last rays of sun, he lined up his shot, breathed out slowly, and released. The arrow found it’s home in the dead center of the dead center.

A shot of electric thrill pulsed through Natasha’s body at the sight of him standing there, all angles and flawless stance. The perfect shot didn’t escape her notice either.

“Believe me now?” he teased.

Nat shrugged, but her grin belied her casualness.

They went back inside and as they ate a leftover dinner she asked him if that’s where he went when he woke up in the middle of the night. Even if he hadn’t nodded she’d have guessed it. It was obvious how the shooting calmed him, and maybe it made dealing with his sins of war easier.

That night, as she lay in bed, two thoughts swam through her head. The first was that she’d been able to throw knives like she’d been born to do it and how that made her feel bright and warm inside. She could protect herself if it ever came to it, and that made her feel…powerful. She didn’t need to worry so much about being on this place by herself once Clint left. She could defend her land in a manner that was both effective and intimidating.

The second was the image of Clint standing there with a bow in his hands, his shoulders positioned and his upper arms taunt. It made something deep in her gut twist in a way that wasn’t necessarily unpleasant.

She’d felt that way a few times about James, but it had never been this strong.

She rolled over deciding not to give the idea anymore thought nor merit. She was a widow and she would take that role seriously. She would mourn her husband, not ogle over some archer with breathtaking blue eyes and an easy grin that lately had made her toes curl.

She dreamed about him anyway.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we got a little note on Clint's backstory and some Natasha being a badass! Aw yeah! 
> 
> In other news, for those of you interested, Island of Misfit Boys part 3 had been officially planned out! I hope to start on it this summer and have it posted for you sometime in the early fall. And oh, the feels are there. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking! <3


	5. Chapter 5

  **Clint woke up** with a headache. One look outside showed low, oppressive clouds rolling in with the end of November. He wanted to roll over and try to go back to sleep, but his engrained alarm clock prevented him from even coming close. So he instead tossed back the blankets and flattened his bare feet on the floor.

The wooden boards were chilly with the encroaching cold from outside and he instantly regretted untwining himself from the warm soft blankets of the bed.

His body was sore from nightmares and lack of decent sleep, his head pounding, so he decided on a shower. One hand scrubbed over his face told him a shave was in order too.

He let the hot water seep into his muscles and distantly reminisced about cold baths in the large tubs the circus animals drank from. He silently praised the hot water that ran like magic into the house on its own. He could kiss the guy who invented indoor plumbing.

He toweled off, swinging the fabric low on his hips. He cranked the knob on the heat register, opening it up further so that the room would stay warm while he shaved.

He opened the drawer with his jar of shaving cream and straight blade razor. Lathering up, and positioning himself in front of the mirror – his face filling most of it – he briefly remembered getting the blade from the Swordsman on his fifteenth birthday. The knife thrower had told him that a real man would only use a straight razor, and with his steady hands and sniper’s patience, Clint had never been inclined to disagree.

Down on the face, up on the neck. Careful. Steady. Slow.

He rinsed the blade off in the stopped-up sink and caught any patches he might have missed. He toweled off the shaving cream residue and opened the drawer once more for his small bottle of aftershave. One glance at it and he knew he’d need to get another one soon. But there was just enough for now and it was only after he’d patted it on his cheeks and neck that he noticed he had a watcher.

He turned to face her, his brows narrowed in questioning.

Natasha smiled gently and apologized before adding, “I used to watch James shave all the time.” She took a step into the heated bathroom, breathing in the scents of soap, cream, and aftershave. “I miss it.”

Clint rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and held onto the towel around his waist with the other. “Maybe next time I’ll charge admission,” he tried to joke, but his sudden bashfulness took the humor out of it. He ran his hand through his hair and let the shaggy mess attempt to settle.

Natasha eyed his ragged mop and pursed her lips. “I can cut that, you know.”

Clint looked confused briefly before catching up. “Oh. Um… okay. I…”

“I’ll set up a chair in the kitchen. The light will be better. Get dressed and meet me down there.”

She turned and walked down the stairs, hips swaying in the way graceful women’s hips do. He tried not to watch her backside as it retreated but couldn’t help himself. She was a beautiful woman, with endless curves and flaming red hair, the kind that would have been painted on the sides of airplanes by lonely, longing men.

Clint shook the thought from his head, took a deep, settling breath, and returned to his room to dress.

He threw on a pair of canvas fatigue pants, an Army T-shirt, and added his leather jacket to help deter feeling like he was back in Europe. Pulling on some thick, woolen socks he descended the stairs. True to her word, Natasha had set up a chair by the window where the light would be best. She instructed him to sit and then wrapped a dishtowel around his shoulders and fastened it in the front with a clothespin.

His hair was still mostly damp, but Natasha leaned his neck back over the ledge of the sink and rewetted it from the faucet anyway. She toweled it off and then picked up the trimming shears and a comb. She combed it out, silently marveling at how thick his hair was. James had had a full head of hair, but it hadn’t been nearly this dense. She wished she had a set of clippers like the barbershop in town.

Starting in the back, she straightened out the bottom, combing up the strands so that she could see the hairline. She moved to the sides, raking out the long locks vertically and trimming them to nearly a third of their length. She trimmed up the front the most, removing his lengthy bangs that clearly hung down into his eyes. She cropped his hair close, purposefully keeping it longer than military regulation, but edging towards that style simply for utility.

She set down the scissors and ran her fingers through his hair, shaking out any loose bits. It felt nice, carding her fingers through his hair like that, and it was taking more than she was willing to admit to stop herself from spending the rest of the morning caressing his scalp. But his involuntary groan from deep in his throat had her hands flying from his head and Clint’s cheeks reddening.

Undoing the towel from around his neck and shaking it out on the floor, Natasha muttered, “All done,” and then reached for the broom to begin sweeping up the mass of dirty blonde tuffs.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, heading for the front door, putting on his winter overcoat, boots, gloves, and hat before nearly bolting outside.

Once he was gone, Natasha stopped sweeping and leaned her forehead on the handle of the broom, groaning in frustration.

It had gotten worst in the past few weeks, ever since that throwing knife lesson and seeing him shoot. Since then she’d started to notice little things about him: the way he expertly laced up his boots in no time flat, the fact that he was left handed, that he occasionally sang in the shower. He had a nice voice too.

But it was also in the way he treated her like she was capable and strong, how he let her drive, go to work, help him move wood planks or hold nails; it was in how he let her throw his knives and take out her frustration even if it meant holding a lantern out there by the scrap wood pile behind the barn for a few hours. She returned the favor a time or two, and held up the light while he shot arrow after arrow into the wood in the middle of the night. His focus never once waivered and it almost scared her how…distant he could be. But he’d return eventually, give her a sad smile and they’d walk back into the house in silence.

She gathered his hair into a pan and tossed it away before starting on breakfast. She just hoped the cold air would clear his head and they’d both simply forget about what happened.

Neither brought it up, but there was a noticeable tinge to the air that hinted at uncomfortable. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get the feeling of his hair out of her fingers.

…

It was the day before Thanksgiving and Natasha found herself in the local grocery store debating about the canned green beans or corn. She would’ve asked Clint which he preferred but currently the man was at the hardware store picking up another package of nails, lumber, and some motor oil. The barn was mostly back in shape and next on his list was to fix up the tractor and little other machinery inside.

She settled on the beans, not wanting to disappoint the Iowa boy with canned corn.

As she turned into the next aisle she ran into a familiar face who greeted her with a pleasant smile.

“Nice to see you out of the office,” Nat joked. Pepper laughed.

“Likewise.” She dropped a loaf of bread into her hand basket. Debated, then put it back, leaving her with nothing in it.

“Trouble shopping?” Nat wondered.

Pepper sighed heavily. “I’ve been invited to the Stark household for Thanksgiving dinner and can’t decide if I should bring a dish or just let the rich folk feed me. I mean, I’d feel bad if I brought nothing, but they’ll probably have eight different kinds of potatoes alone.”

“So bring a dessert,” Natasha shrugged. “You can never have too many desserts.”

“You’ve never been to a Stark party. You name a flavor of pie and you can get it in three varieties.”

“I thought the goal was to avoid the Starks, not impress them.”

Pepper sagged her normally proud shoulders. “It was…” she trailed off.

Nat raised a brow. “What changed?”

“I don’t know,” Pepper whined. “One minute Tony’s behaving like the king, the next the jester, but in the end he’s alone in the corner with no one around who really understands him. Except for one of the scientists in Stark Industries R&D, but he never comes to parties. Something about not getting along well in crowds.” Her eyes met Natasha’s and there was something terribly emotional in them. “He’s lonely. Deep underneath all that armor-hard exterior, he’s lonely.”

Natasha frowned. It was obvious something the billionaire genius did got to Pepper on a close and personal level. Pepper didn’t just switch sides for the grins of it. So in answer to the woman’s problem, Nat readjusted her basket and asked, “What’s _his_ favorite dessert?”

Pepper shrugged but stopped halfway. “Blueberry cobbler.”

“Make that. It won’t matter if there’s one hundred blueberry cobblers there, he’ll eat yours.”

Pepper smiled and leaned in to quickly hug Natasha. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Anytime.”

It was as Pepper was turning to leave that Natasha felt the tap on her shoulder. She whirled around to see Clint standing there, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Lumber ain’t gonna fit in the back of the car so they’re letting me borrow a truck.” He handed her the keys to the coupe. “See you there.” He didn’t linger and was almost spun around when Pepper guessed, “You must be the renter.”

Clint faced her with a minute air of hesitancy. “Yes, ma’am.” He stuck out his hand. “Clint Barton.”

She took it. “Pepper Potts. I work in the same building as Natasha.”

He smiled pleasantly enough, nodded once, and muttered, “Nice to meet you.”

Then he met Natasha’s gaze. “See ya at home,” he rushed, slipping past her and out of the store. Nat frowned after him, figuring that social encounters were probably still on the list to work on. He’d gotten better at decision-making, and she’d moved on to providing ranges for things instead of set times. He was learning to live as a civilian, but it came one step at a time.  

“So when’s the wedding?” Pepper asked behind her.

Natasha returned her line of sight to her friend. “Who’s wedding?”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “The renter and yours.”

It was Nat’s turn to send her eyes in an arc. “Oh please, Pep; we’re _not_ rationed.”

“Maybe you need to get your eyes checked. Natasha, he’s a dish. And I won’t even mention the way you stared after him.” She grinned wickedly. “You’re in love; admit it.”

Natasha adjusted her own shopping basket and answered back with a somber reply. “He just came back from war and I’ve just lost my husband. Neither one of us are in any kind of shape to be chasing around a childish notion like love.”

Pep didn’t say anything and instead wished the other woman a happy holiday and thanked her again for the suggestion.

Natasha rolled the conversation over in her mind the whole way home and decided that she’d been truthful. But there was something nasty gnawing in her gut, and no matter how hard she tried, it didn’t go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Clint just might be falling for Natasha in return. Hmmm...
> 
> (Yes, blueberry cobbler is weak reference to Tony's offering of "Blueberry?" to Bruce in Avengers.) 
> 
> Kind of fillery, but the next chapter gets a little dark, so enjoy the relative fluff while you can. 
> 
> As always, thank you so very much to those who have read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,   
> So you might have noticed I added a few tags, but just in case, I'd like to call your attention to it. This chapter gets more into Clint and Nat's histories, and if you're familiar with canon, they suck. So Clint talks about his abusive childhood and that's the reason for the implied/reference domestic and child abuse tags. (The minor self harm is Clint practicing so much his fingers bleed.) Also minor character death. I don't dwell too much on it, but CAUTION, I guess. I just thought I'd address that. Thanks!   
> \- Z_Socks

**She awoke to** darkness and screaming. The occurrence itself wasn’t odd as it had been happening since Clint had arrived back in September. But unlike every other time, the screaming wasn’t stopping. The hollers of pain and regret were not silenced by awakening and replaced with urgent steps downstairs and outside to shoot at his painted target. This time the screaming went on.

It got louder and more tortured and she couldn’t stand to let it go on. Springing up from her bed, she crossed her room and marched down the hall to his. She hesitated at the doorknob but another yell had her yanking the door open with newfound urgency.

“Clint,” she called from her place in the doorway. He was whimpering loudly, something bubbling and gargling in his throat. But another scream followed, and with nothing to shield its intensity, Natasha could feel it in the floorboards. “Clint!” she hollered back. Still no reply.

She stepped towards him as he thrashed about in his sheets. He screamed again and this time she placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly and shaking him.

“Cl-” but she was cut off by his bolting awake, knife drawn from under the pillow and at her throat in the blink of an eye.

She watched with wide eyes as his feral stare slowly softened into recognition and then pain.

“’Tasha, what the hell are you doing?”

“You have a knife on me and are asking what _I’m_ doing,” she replied evenly.

Clint’s eyes fell to the blade, dropping it like it was aflame. A flash of anger appeared in his gaze but if it was directed at her or himself, she couldn’t tell.

“Get it,” he muttered, his breathing ragged and quick, coming in short gasps.  

“What?”

“Get the light. Meet me outside.” And with that, he nudged her off and away, ripping his jacket from the bedframe and pulling on a pair of warm pants. Natasha left, bundling herself up and getting the lantern from the hook by the door. They met on the front steps by some unspoken agreement, and Clint marched them out to the woodpile, his eyes never once leaving the horizon ahead.

He set up in silence, stretched his arms and shoulders while she dutifully held the light. He aimed and fired, aimed and fired, relentlessly, seamlessly. Once out of arrows, he retrieved them, reloaded the quiver on his hip, and repeated the process.

Natasha was shivering, but she kept the light on the target, watching as the bullseye filled up, then the rings, then the spaces in between. He shot over and over, not uttering a word, never removing his focus from the target.

By the buttery light of the lantern, Nat noticed something shiny drop from the end of one of the arrows. She moved the lantern briefly towards the nock of the shaft and squinted her eyes at it. Another arrow flew past her and again she saw something drop. It looked liquidy, and as she held the light towards it again, she finally saw what it was.  

Dark red drops dripped from the ends of all the arrows currently in the center ring. The smell of copper tinged the air.

Natasha steeled her features and traipsed towards the stone-faced archer. “What the hell, Barton!” she screamed.

He just kept shooting.

She set the lamp on the workbench and pulled on his bow arm, wrestling it from his grip with less effort than she would have expected. She set the bow on the bench by the lamp, and took Clint’s other hand in hers. Sure enough, his fingers were covered in sticky red blood. It dripped from his fingertips, down his digits, and soaked his palm, staining his shirtsleeve.

Clint jerked his hand back, scowling at her and reaching for his bow. Natasha smacked his forearm, and knocked the weapon away. She hollered, “What are you doing?”

“Shooting it out of my head!” he yelled back. “And it ain’t gone yet so hold the damn light, woman!”

She slapped him. Hard. It was brave and bold and stupid, but as a stinging red handprint on his right cheek blossomed under the cold night air, she felt maybe it had been the right thing to do. Maybe.

He blinked, seemingly coming out of the scary trance he’d been in. 

Gently, Natasha took his bleeding hand into hers, pressing his icy, bloody fingers between her palms. “You need to stop now.” She moved her hand to where she’d whelped him, feeling the moisture she couldn’t really see in the dim light. Carefully she cradled his cheek in her hand. “I don’t think it’s going away tonight.”

“It never goes away,” he whimpered. He took a shaky breath and leaned into her hand. “He never goes away.” Salty tears mixed with the blood under her palm where it lay. She pulled him into her arms and let him cry. It was dark enough and lonely enough that no one but she would know that he wept.

The wind whisked away the drops from his eyes, freezing them further. She whispered, “Let’s go inside,” and led him to the house where they both collapsed onto the couch in the living room. She turned on the lamp nearest them, then stood up briefly to get a towel for his fingers. She first dried his eyes and face, tenderly avoiding where his cheek was slightly swollen from her hand. She wrapped his fingers in the fabric and held tightly to stem off the bleeding.

“He killed her,” Clint whispered hoarsely.

“Who?” Natasha inquired calmly.

“Pa. He would hit Barn and me. Whip us with belts, smack us around. Ma said it was the drink talking, not him, but…” He sniffed, sounding for the world like a child. “The Dust wiped us out. The farm was no good anymore, not growing nothin’, and Pa was spending what little we had on alcohol, getting drunk and mean and hitting us. Ma tried to protect us but he grabbed her and hit and hit and…” He didn’t go on for a while and Natasha sat there patiently, keeping pressure on his hand.

“He hit too hard,” Clint pushed out. “Hit her too hard and she fell to the ground, red dripping from her nose and mouth. He… killed her.” With his free hand he wiped his nose and dabbed at his eyes childishly. But Natasha knew in that moment he was a child, a much younger, terrified version of himself.

“Then he picked her up and held her close like she actually meant somethin’ to him, then holler’d for Barn to get some shovels, and marched us out to one of the back fields. He told us to dig and as we did so he held Ma close, and it looked so wrong.

“Then when the hole was deep enough he laid her in, jerked my shovel from my hands, filled it in, and patted it down, and shoved the thing back at me. He told Barn and me that if we ever said one word about this we’d be in the hole with her, so we kept real quiet and ran away two weeks later.”

He met Nat’s gaze with terrible pain in his beautiful blue eyes and tried so hard to smile. “Don’t matter what I saw or did over there. I already knew what hell was like.”

The wind rattled the boards of the house as Natasha readjusted her grip on his hand, studying the red blooming on the towel. “Smoking in the house reminds me of the fire that took my parents from me,” she spilled hurriedly. “It clouds up and floats around on the ceiling and it’s like I’m five again, crawling on my hands and knees until I reach the door and stumble out into the eternal Russian snow.”

“You got out?” His voice was quiet and broken from his own sobbing.

 “Someone, a neighbor I think, picked me up and tried to carry me to a safer distance, but all I wanted to do was wait for my parents by the door.” She took in a breath, and let it out slowly to keep the room from spinning. “That’s when I heard my mother scream. It came from in the house and I looked through the blazing entryway to see her consumed in red-hot flames. They licked at her and she screamed and screamed until the fire ate up all the oxygen in her lungs and she collapsed.” She felt the sting of salt in her eyes and tried to blink it away.

Clint’s palm went to her cheek, warm, heavy, and gentle. His thumb whisked away the single tear that had gotten through her defenses.

“The Red Room took me in after that, trained me to be a perfect wife.” In a much quieter voice she added, “Through any means necessary.”

She peeled up the towel and saw that the bleeding had mostly stopped. She rewrapped his fingers in a clean portion of it and told him to get some rest.

For a moment, Clint looked ready to protest, but he stood and whispered, “Thank you.”

Natasha avoided his eyes as she nodded and he left to go back upstairs. She followed soon after, shaking off the fear and anger, hurt and pity, before crawling back under the covers.

She had never told anyone about the fire. Not even James. And somewhere in her mind she settled it that it was okay that the first to know was someone just as tragically broken as she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, short and dark this week, but we get into some Christmastime goodies next week to make up for it. :) 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked and Kudos-ed! This story is possible because of you. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**An invitation arrived** at her station at work two weeks before Christmas. It was on expensive paper with a crest pressed in wax to seal the envelope. Natasha found the flourish to be too much and outdated, but opened it anyway. Reading quickly she discovered that she was invited to the annual Stark Christmas party and was permitted to bring a guest. An added scrap of paper slipped into the card was in Pepper’s neat cursive.

BRING THE RENTER it read.

Natasha rolled her eyes at lack of subtlety.       

She had never been one for parties, and she knew with the name Stark attached that this wasn’t going to be some quaint get-together. And with how nervous Clint had been just meeting Pepper at the grocery store, perhaps throwing him into the fray of high society would do him in.

But something in the back of her mind nudged her. The idea of attending a nice party for the holiday caught her imagination and lit it with starlight. It wasn’t a thought that left easily, imagining all that wonderful food and dancing. So she tucked the envelope into her handbag and decided to talk to Clint about it later.  

Ultimately it would be the lack of funding that made the decision for her. She didn’t have enough for a big dinner _and_ a gift for her renter, who after that night of confessions had only put in more work on the place and had secretly – although little escaped Natasha – reduced his smoking habit. He was a good and considerate man and she wanted to give him something for the holiday, but that meant cutting out something else. If she could get him to go to the party, then they’d still get a fancy Christmas dinner, and she could give him a nice gift.  

Snow had started to blanket the area back in November, with some flurries long before that. But it was piling now and looking more and more like the season should. It put her in a lighter mood, one she hadn’t felt in a long while.

She came home to a healthy fir tree proudly standing in the window of the living area like a soldier at attention. It was decorated with a glass star on top and shiny strands of tinsel. A few glass globes hung on randomly selected boughs, weighing the branches down into graceful arcs. There were no lights and the globes were cracked as if-

“I found them in a box in the hayloft,” Clint explained, coming up beside her, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them to regain their warmth. “Thought a tree would look nice in here.”

He wasn’t wrong. The fir took up the perfect amount of space and filled the large window like something from a card. The rich smell of pine didn’t hurt the image any either.

Natasha turned to him and smiled. “I’ll see if I can find some candle holders to tie onto the branches.” Neither she nor James had ever gotten around to getting some of those electric fairy lights.

He grinned back, something bright and beaming in his eyes. “So you like it?”

“Yes. It’s… it’s perfect. Thank you.” She paused, biting her lip before making her decision. She crossed over to where her handbag was sitting on the table and pulled out the invitation she’d been carrying around for almost a week. “Can I talk to you about something.”

Clint narrowed his brows but nodded in reply.

Walking over so she could show him the richly adorned invitation, she started, “Pepper knows the Stark family and it turns out we’ve been invited to their Christmas Eve dinner.”

Clint’s eyes were wide but he didn’t seem to be protesting.

“They’d have an absolutely massive feast, and there’d be dancing, and music and-”

“You don’t have to sell me on it, Tasha. If you want to go, let’s go.”

She pressed her lips into a line. “But I’m asking if _you_ want to go. I know it’d be a lot of people and it could get overwhelming.”

“Just because I prefer to avoid crowds doesn’t mean I don’t know how to handle one. I did go through something called Basic Training, you know. ‘Lotta people there.” He was smirking a little, and the gleam had yet to vanish from his eyes.

Natasha nearly matched his look as excitement shot through her. But she caught herself and glanced back down at the paper as she stated, “I hope you don’t mind this taking the place of Christmas dinner. I’m afraid I don’t have enough for anything fancy.”

Clint shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m just glad to be stateside for this Christmas.”

This time she did grin back.

But Clint went to rub at the back of his neck and frowned, concentrating. “Guess I’ll go in military dress.”

“James had a suit. If you’d rather wear that I could take it up for you.”

“Yeah?”

“You can try it on after dinner so I can mark it.”

And that was how Clint ended up standing on a kitchen chair with nice but baggy slacks cinched around his waist and a jacket that was too small in the shoulders.

Natasha marked the pieces accordingly: take up the hem in the pants, let out the upper arms, shorten the cuffs, and re-sew the brass, double-breasted buttons.

It was a lot of work to do. James and Clint weren’t anywhere near the same build or size. But at least they were similar in torso length so the jacket wouldn’t have to be completely redone.

 

Christmas Eve rolled around in a flurry of snow and candlelight. The tree was lit with a dozen candles all flickering and dancing to the air in the room. When the sun set over the snowy horizon, Clint came in from waxing the coupe, scrubbed up, shaved, and stood in his shorts looking at the suit laid out on his bed.

It was expertly tailored, looking as good or better than if it had been done in a shop. The brass buttons were polished and no longer hanging from tried threads. The grey fabric had been washed, the crisp white shirt starched. No tie had been provided, but he snatched the one from his duffel bag since it would add a dot of color.

He dressed quickly, marveling at how much better the suit fit this time around. Having polished his shoes last night, he re-laced them, singing the ends through the eyelets and tying them up tightly. When he stood up to look in the mirror, he had to smile at the gentleman that was reflected before him.

He went down to the kitchen, admiring the reflection of the house lights in the coupe outside. It looked about as polished as he felt.

A throat was cleared from somewhere behind him and he spun around to see Natasha standing on the last step. And his mouth nearly fell open at the sight.

She’d decided on the red dress. Having spent nearly fifteen minutes debating between her solemn black number in keeping with her mourning, or the lacey red one she’d worn on her honeymoon. It hung at her knees, and had a ruffle along the V neckline that fell a degree shy of modest. A thin black belt accentuated her waist, and the three-quarters sleeves were lined in satin at the cuffs. Her hair was done up in sweeping curls, a few strands falling to bend around her face, framing it. With lips done up in a matching shade of lipstick, and her eyes lined, she looked breathtaking.     

In her hands she held a dark grey hat that she offered out to Clint. “I forgot to leave this out for you.”

He walked towards her, taking the hat and trying not to stare at her. The stair evened their height difference so that their features were perfectly aligned. Clint swallowed hard as he glanced at her lips before stepping back a little too quickly.

Natasha noticed it too, how close they had been in that moment. And Clint looked undeniably sharp in that suit, the royal purple of his tie complimenting the blue and flecks of green in his eyes.

They both took a moment to gather themselves.

Clint played with the brim of the hat almost nervously, debating. He broke down and headed towards the Christmas tree, pulling a small gift from under it.

“I was going to wait to give this to you tomorrow, but I think you need it now,” he explained, handing it over to Natasha.

She eyed him curiously as she carefully undid the wrapping paper and opened the velvet hinged box. She gasped softly.

Inside was a teardrop pendant necklace with a red ruby held by two thin silver rings at the top that met in the middle to create the loop for the chain. It shimmered in the flickering light from the candles on the tree, each facet reflecting and refracting the beams. “Clint,” she breathed.

“I picked it up in Germany. Some guy was selling all the jewelry from his store cheap so he could get enough to get out and go to France. He had his kid with him and I kinda felt sorry for him, so I bought something thinking maybe someday I’d find someone to give it to.”

“Clint, it’s too…”

“Just take it, Tasha.” His eyes were soft despite his somewhat stern tone.

Natasha looked back at the necklace and then at the man who had given it to her. He was lovely in the soft lighting of the tree, dressed to the nines and begging with his beautiful eyes for her to accept this. So she did.

Taking it carefully out of the box, she asked, “Will you help me put it on?”

Clint took it from her as she swept back the few strands of her hair that were hanging free. He fastened it around her neck, capable fingers making quick, easy work of the tiny clasp. Those same fingers lingered for a moment at the back of her neck, and Natasha felt her pulse quicken involuntarily.

It hung at her collarbone, filling the neckline of her dress perfectly. Natasha turned to face him, giving him a quick and almost unconscious peck on the cheek. He blushed as he smiled and then cleared his throat saying they should probably get going.

They blew out the candles on the tree, but kept the one in the windowsill lit. He put on his hat and coat, helping Natasha into hers, and held out the keys to her.

“You want to drive?”

She grinned and took his offer. “You navigate.”

He chuckled and then opened the door, turning out the light as they left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, sweet, kind of fluffy! Like a corgi. hmmm...
> 
> Next chapter Christmas goodies continue with the party at Stark's. But not all Christmastime memories are good ones... 
> 
> In other news, those of you who follow my series Island of Misfit Boys will be glad to know that part three is officially 5 scenes in! It's taken me a little spell in here to get back in that mindset, but I'm so excited to be back. (It also helps that I went to a Con yesterday and someone was cosplaying as Coulson and OMG he was so legit!) 
> 
> As always, thank you so, so much to everyone who has read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. Have a great week!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter includes an account of time in a POW camp and includes mentions of torture.

**To say that** the party was grand would be a gross understatement. The ballroom in the Stark’s mansion was glittering in gold and glass. Ribbons flittered as the wind from twirling dancers caught their tails. Champagne bubbled up like laughter, and was sipped from crystal glasses like gossip. Red and gold dominated the pallet in everything from the dinnerware to the shiny brass instruments that blared out swing and jazz.

At seven on the dot, the table was set and the guest seated. Howard and Maria sat at the head, with their son, Tony, next to them. Pepper was placed next to him and didn’t seem to be minding too terribly, but an eye roll or two could be spotted without much search. Natasha and Clint were next in the order, Nat being seated beside Pepper. Across from them sat Obadiah Stane, a business contact and friend of the Stark family, and Senator Stern and his wife.

The meal was elaborate, containing more courses than anyone had room for, including a carved turkey and all the fixings, plus a dessert of every guest’s choice.

When the dinner was over, Tony stood up to chat with a friend; Rhodey was what he called him. With Clint off to the rest room, Tasha got her friend’s attention.

“Didn’t bring a dessert this time,” she teased.  

“I did. Tony said we’d have it after.” She followed it with a wink, and Natasha grinned knowingly.

Across the table, Stern’s wife cleared her throat. “Pardon my intrusion, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Milly Stern.”

“Natasha Barns.”

“And that handsome young man you were sitting next to must be your husband.” She ginned and it came off a bit predatory.

“Actually-”

“You’re right, Mrs. Stern,” Pepper cut in. She turned to the senator’s wife. “They got married as soon as the war ended, courted through the entire thing; can you believe it?”

“Oh, that’s so romantic,” gushed the wife. “Tell me Natasha, was that difficult, being so far from your sweetheart?”

If it hadn’t been for the worried look in Pepper’s eye, Nat would have set the record straight in a heartbeat. But her alarms were going off, so she dabbed her lips with a napkin and played along…for now.

“It was terrible. I missed him so much and was so scared he wouldn’t make it back. I wrote him whenever I could and searched the mailbox everyday in hope that I would have a letter from him.” She paused a moment, drawing her thoughts together and realizing maybe what she was saying wasn’t so far off. “And when I did,” she went on, remembering those awful years spent away from James, never knowing if he was coming home in a wooden box, “I read and reread that letter until I had all the words committed to memory. I’d fall asleep with it next to me and it was almost like he was there.

“But it was a risk, checking that mailbox everyday. Because as much as I wanted to get a letter from him, I didn’t want to get a letter _about_ him. About how he died in battle or was wounded and lying in a MASH’s post-op.”

“You must’ve been so happy for him to come home.”

“Overjoyed.”

“What was overjoying?” Clint inquired, taking his seat next to Natasha.

“When you came home, dear,” Nat finished, taking his hand under the table and squeezing it in hope that he’d get the memo to play along. (But to what, Natasha was still unsure.)

“Oh, how lovely.” The wife gripped her husband’s arm, pulling him from his conversation with Stane. “Darling, do you think we have time for one more dance before we leave?” She looked at the couple across from her with a sparkle in her eye. “I believe I’ve been inspired.” The senator started to protest but his wife only gripped tighter and led him onto the dance floor where the band had struck up a slow waltz.

“What the hell was that about?” Clint whispered.

“I was wondering the same thing?” Nat directed to her friend.

Pepper looked utterly unfazed and offered the two a grateful smile. “You two were swell.”

Nat pressed, “Pepper.”

“Look,” she brought her voice to nearly inaudible level. “I can’t say much, but Stark Industries is under some serious heat on Capitol Hill. Apparently the Nazis had some of our tech and were shooting our guys with it. So right now we need all the political support we can get. And that includes the super conservative senator and his wife who boil over at the very idea of an unmarried woman sharing a house with a man.”

Clint rolled his eyes.

Natasha pressed her lips together and narrowed her brows. “Couldn’t you have passed it off as something else? No one said we were sharing a house.”

“Tony may have dropped a hint. A big hint. In fact he might have just spilled the beans.”

“What was he doing talking about us anyway?” Clint asked.

“We were having a conversation. Stern butted in to try and corner Tony into a senate hearing. I wasn’t sure how much he caught so I thought I’d better play it safe.” She looked at both of them. “And once again, you two were brilliant.”

“I think Tony’s scrambled your brain,” Nat deadpanned.

Pepper frowned and coupled it with a glare. “Regardless, I need you two to keep up the charade. Stark Industries depends on it.” She shifted her gaze so that she’d stared pointedly at each of them. “Besides, it’s not like it’ll be hard.”

“What’s that supposed to-”

“All right, Ladies and Gentlemen,” the grandstand announced. “It’s time for the official inaugural dance of the evening. So grab your partner, hold ‘em real close, look ‘em deep in the eye, and let’s all feel some love.”

The band struck up something slow and swaying. Tony swept Pepper away in the blink of an eye, and the rest of the remaining few at the table followed suit.

Natasha looked at Clint, her mouth open as if she was going to say something, but instead gripped his hand and brought him to his feet. He looked terrified as she led him to the floor, and his wide eyes only became more that way as she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Tasha,” he started. He wet his lips nervously. “Tash.”

“What?”

“I… I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

He leaned in closely and whispered in her ear. “I can’t dance.” He pulled away, biting his lip. “No one ever taught me,” he admitted quietly.

It blindsided her for a moment, but she recovered momentarily and nodded once at him. “Then I will.”

She took his hand in hers, placed his hand on her waist, and laid her other one on his shoulder once more. “Imagine a box. You’re going to step in all four corners.”

“Okay.”

“Good. First, step forward with your right, other right, good.” She moved them as she instructed, feeling odd that she had to take the lead. “Okay, now step to the left on your left foot, and bring them together. Down with the left, and step out right, and together. See? Box.”

He nodded, reviewing the steps in his mind. “Okay.”

“Ready.” She took her position. “And, forward, left, together. Backward, right, together. Forward, left, together. Backward, right, together. Don’t look at your feet.” She slipped her hand under his chin to lift it up. Their eyes locked and she didn’t even realize her breath caught in her throat.

His eyes were so blue and the golden light of the ballroom had fire going in them. She studied them, instinctually memorizing the colors, the blues and greens, and that thin ring of brown near his pupils. His wide pupils.

“Ow.”

“Sorry,” he apologized quickly, glancing down at their feet to inspect for any damage to the toes he’d just stepped on.

“No worries,” she dismissed hurriedly, ignoring the sting in her left foot.

He looked embarrassed, his cheeks pinking up.

“How about a turn?”

“Uh…”

“Just hold out your arm and raise it up.” She moved their connected hands so he was in place while she gracefully spun underneath and reconnected them into their previous position. “There. Easy right? Now back to the step and…”

He followed in it perfectly, never missing a beat. It surprised her for a moment until she realized his keen eyes must have taken in all the steps, and his honed muscle memory filled in the rest. He was good, his natural rhythm complimenting hers as they swayed. He eventually took the lead. 

The band ended the song and flowed right into one that was upbeat. Younger couples broke out into elaborate moves, jitterbugging and twisting at rapid speeds. The older guests let them take the floor, some complaining that such dancing was sinful.

Natasha and Clint stayed to the side. Nat hung onto his arm and told him, “Don’t worry. We’ll learn that later.”

He smirked at her and wrapped his arm around her waist. Natasha looked out over the crowd, but all she could feel was the warm weight of him next to her, his solid arm around her, connecting her to him. It practically burned her through the fabric of her dress. And was that the champagne making her a little dizzy?

After more dancing, Howard and Maria stopped the band to make a toast. They raised their glasses to their guests, to the band and caterers, to select attendants with pull and deep pockets. But lastly Howard said a toast to all the fallen brothers who couldn’t be there to celebrate with them. The resounding “cheers” echoed the somber sentiment. Everyone sipped to the speech. However, Natasha noticed her renter did not. 

Clint leaned over to whisper in her ear, “I need a cigarette,” before making a fast getaway for the balcony exit.    

She let him stay out there for a moment before following.

It was chilly, the wind wet and promising more flaky snow. Several men were gathered discussing money and politics, cigars thick, pungent in their hands and mouths.

She located Clint on the steps to the balcony, cigarette nearly gone and another one out of the pack before she was even over there.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

He looked up at her and she could see moisture in his eyes. “Fine,” he stated flatly, lighting the tip of the white paper and pulling in a long drag.

Natasha sat next to him on the steps, ignoring the stinging smoke in her eyes, nose, and throat. “Who was it?”

“What do you mean?” But she could tell he was dodging the question more than trying to clear up any confusion.

“Who did you lose over there?” she tried again.

“Lost a lotta people, Tasha.”

“But one was different, right. Closer than the rest?”

Clint stayed silent and sucked in smoke, holding it in his lungs for a long time before blowing it out. “His name was Phil.”

Nat noticed his distant look and turned her eyes to the horizon, hoping maybe she’d see what he was trying to tell her.

“The first Christmas I was over there I spent in a POW camp,” he started in a tired voice. “Our battalion had been taken, split up, and the next thing I know I’m waking up to a hand covering my mouth and a voice whispering in my ear this crazy string of numbers. It took me a bit, but I eventually figured that they were coordinates for a German town where I did a hit.

“’Dusseldorf?’ I asked him. He nodded and then stuck out his hand saying he was sorry for the theatrics but he had to make sure I really was the Hawk.”

“The Hawk?” She couldn’t keep the smile from tilting up her lips.

“Stage name makes a good call sign,” he shrugged. “He went on to tell me about where we were and who he was, but I kept thinkin’ the latter had something funny about it. But then he told me about his family back home, said I reminded him of his son who died of influenza when he was still a kid.”

He took another drag.

“Well, the Commandant summons me one day and tells me that he knows who I am and what I can do and tells me that I’m going to teach his troops precision shooting so they don’t waste precious ammo. I tell him that it’s not something that can be taught and he puts his cigarette out on my side.” His fingers went there out of instinct.

Natasha shivered, thinking about burns causing her own raw memories to stray. Clint mistook her shaking for being cold and slid out of his jacket, draping it over her shoulders.

“I told Phil about it later and he said that I could always just be a bad teacher. That way I’d be staying alive and relatively unharmed while still pulling one over on the Germans.

“So I tried to teach the soldiers, purposely making it difficult for them to learn. Meanwhile, Phil started to include me in on the plans for busting out of there, taking my advice and factoring in my marksmanship. He really saw potential in me, told me that after the war he could use a man like me on his team – whatever that meant. He was the first person to really believe I could _be_ something, _do_ something. And it was…”

He smoked for a long time and Natasha wondered if that’s all she was going to hear. But he let out a breath, deep and heavy. “Commandant Laufeyson caught on to me. He called me to his office and said that if I didn’t start making his soldiers into marksmen, then I was going to pay. I tried to tell him again that it was something that couldn’t be taught, and he threw me in the cooler with no food for sixty hours.

“I trained them better after that, but they still were falling kinda shy. It really isn’t something everyone can learn. But the Commandant didn’t share that belief. Phil and me put on some final details to the breakout plan.” He let out a breath, slumping his shoulders and mumbling, “He called me his son’s name as he tucked a blanket to my chin. He was dreaming, doing it in his sleep but…but it still felt nice. You know?”

She nodded.

He heaved another sigh, focusing his eyes further into the distance. “We wouldn’t get to use our escape plan, though. Laufeyson found out; some asshole double agent named Ward sold us out. He had Phil and me dragged to his office and told me that my fate rested in my teaching. If every one of his soldiers could make a bullseye, he’d only toss us into the cooler for a month.”

“And if they didn’t?” Nat asked softly.

Clint brought the cigarette up to his mouth but never took a drag, just let it hang there between his fingers. “That’s why he brought Phil.”

Nat frowned, not liking where this was going.

“They didn’t hit it. Some did. A lot came close; in fact as a whole they were probably the most accurate unit in the war. But that wasn’t enough for the Commandant so he took his price.” He flicked the butt away down the steps, the burning end a dying dot of red in the snow. “The guy had this rifle from World War One that he was really proud of, some kind of gift to him from a man called Thanos. The thing had a fourteen-inch bayonet on the end, sharpened to a point like a lion’s tooth and polished up more than the brass on the Commandant’s chest, which is a pretty bold statement. And as soon as the soldiers were done firing, as soon as I witnessed them fail, the Commandant yelled at me to turn around, facing him and Phil, as the bastard stood behind him and… shoved that goddamn point through Phil’s chest.”

His hands danced around for another cigarette, but he didn’t grab one. Natasha took them instead, holding both his palms between hers.

“They tossed his body into the garbage pit. Just tossed it out like it was moldy bread.” He was shaking. “And that’s not the worst of it. The next day, the very next day, our camp was liberated by Captain America.”

Natasha barely held her gasp. _Steve_. And that meant…

“Freakin’ Captain America and the Howling Commandos got us all out of there. They were telling us to run but I went ‘round back and got Phil’s body from the garbage pile and carried it out. ‘Cause there was no way in Hell that I was going to leave him there. And when Cap saw me, he offered to take him for a spell since we were hiking through the forest getting back to base and I hadn’t been fed a decent meal since October. So I handed Phil over and tried not to think about how he worshiped the captain, had comics from home and trading cards he’d picked up in Paris.” Clint was dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, not bothering to take his hands out of Natasha’s. “We buried him with the cards. Cap even signed a few.”

Natasha didn’t know what to say. It was terrible, what he was telling her. He’d lost his closest friend and maybe even the only father he’d ever had. But her mind had zeroed in on Captain Steven Rogers and the letter his best friend, her late husband, had sent her. He’d talked about liberating that camp. He told her how Steve carried a soldier home.

“Would it be rude to leave?” Clint asked.

Natasha shook her head. “I’ll get our stuff and say good night to Pepper. Meet me out front with the car.”

The ride home was silent and sad, and the pair dispersed to their rooms for the night without much of a verbal parting.

Natasha took down her hair, washed her face, and then dressed for bed. But while she was hanging her dress up in the closet, she paused and glanced up at the hatbox on the top shelf. With a frown she pulled it down, blew off the dust from the lid, and gently set it on the bed next to her. By the light of the lamp she laid out letters and medals, pictures of their wedding, and the dreaded drafting letter.

She read over every single letter, clutching a kerchief in her hand and wiping her eyes as months worth of repressed grieving fell down her cheeks. She had loved James, just in a different way than most women love their husbands. But there was love there and it still hurt to lose it.

She found the letter that told of the camp and the fallen soldier. With a sigh she took the letter downstairs, tied a red ribbon on it, and put it under the tree for Barton.

She didn’t bother cleaning up the rest and fell asleep among the letters and medals and photos of a life that she no longer felt a part of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long one there. And sadness on poor Phil's part. But I wanted that parallel to The Avengers and sadly that was how it turned out.   
> To make up for it, there is a bonus chapter being posted today, so hit that next chapter button! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm posting two chapters today so don't forget to read the one before this) - Z Socks

**She was up** early to make Clint coffee. The aroma filled the kitchen and floated up to the second floor, calling like the Sirens to the archer. He came downstairs to find Natasha at the kitchen table, coffee pot sitting in his usual spot.

“Well someone knows how to do a wakeup call,” he commented lightly, getting himself a mug and filling it with bitter dark roast. He took his seat across from Nat. “That was my attempt to lighten the mood.”

“I gathered,” she replied. “But I’m afraid I’m not there yet.”

He quirked a brow as he took a sip.

Nat got up, retrieved the letter from under the tree, and handed it to him cautiously. “Merry Christmas.”

His eyes were narrowed in confusion but he took the piece of folded paper, undid the ribbon, and read it over, trying to keep his frustration at the floating words at bay.

Natasha watched as comprehension hit his features, contorting them into something open then immediately closed off as he put the pieces together. He refolded the paper and set it reverently on the table. “Bucky Barnes. And you’re… Barnes. Wife of James “Bucky” Barnes.”      

“James was already over there when they did the procedure on Steve. He told me what he could in a later letter about it. And Steve stayed a night here while he was touring the country.”

Clint tapped the paper absently. A strange grin came to his face and his eyes looked ready to spill over with tears. “God, if only Phil knew.” He stopped tapping the paper and mumbled, “I kept one of the cards.” He looked at her. “I… could I bury it in the yard? I can’t think of a better place than here. With the quiet and the snow and… and freaking Captain America and…”

She put her hand on his forearm. “Of course.”

He closed his eyes, thanked her, and then left. He came back with a small trading card, wrapped in loose plastic, held carefully in his hands. He put on his coat and gloves, and Natasha did the same.

They were silent as he dug through snow and frozen ground. He’d selected a spot below the sill of the guest room, a spot one could easily see from the window inside.

He put the card in the ground, covered it up instantly, and then stepped back to stare at it. Natasha took his hand in hers, twining their fingers together.

The wind was strong, whipping around Nat’s hair and tugging at Clint’s clothes. Snow swirled on the card’s grave, threatening to sweep it away to be lost. But Natasha turned and grabbed a stone from the rocky base of the barn. She returned promptly, placing it on top of the disappearing grave. _So it won’t get lost._

Clint grabbed for her hand, squeezed it tightly. _Thank you._

No words were said during the rest of the half hour they were out there. And when they returned inside, Natasha heated up the coffee on the stove while Clint sat next to the tree, playing distractedly with a glass orb.

She brought him a mug and they sat for a bit before he broke it, quietly mentioning, “I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been.”

“What?”

“You. Getting that letter. Knowing that the plan you had for the future was annihilated. And then being expected to carry on like it didn’t happen. To stay so… strong. And you have. God, Nat, you’re…”

She couldn’t look at him. _Strong_. No one had ever thought of her that way. And to come from someone who had waded through as much as he had, who was the strongest person she had ever met, to come from him, meant more than the world.

It overwhelmed her, so she shoved it aside for now, locking it up for a later date. Instead she got up and reached under the tree for his present.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Again?”

“This one’s happier.”

He smirked lightly at that as he tore open the paper. He slid open the lid of the box and blinked at what was inside. He pulled it out gently, flipped it over, inspecting all angles. With an almost sense of awe, he put it on, strapping it to his wrist.

“It’s perfect.”

It was a shooting glove, black leather and purple stitching, like he’d once told her his costume had been. It covered the back of his hand and ran up in thin strips along his fingers, protecting the two that held the string.

Natasha wanted to say that she hoped this stopped the bleeding, but the moment was still too tense. She let him enjoy working the leather instead, as she sat back and watched. Something about the sight made a strange feeling come to her gut. Maybe it was the lingering openness of the past few hours’ emotional beating. But as Clint bent his fingers, stretching the leather, relaxed them, she couldn’t help but for a fleeting moment wonder what the leather would feel like on her skin. She dismissed that thought with an audible clearing on her throat. When Clint looked up she waved him off by sipping some more coffee.

But the image didn’t fully leave her mind.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week we'll start the new year, and things get pretty interesting in 1947...
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. I'm glad you're enjoying this story and am truly grateful for your support!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Workplace sexual harassment. It's brief but it is there. Also hinted mentions of past dubious consent. Just letting you know.

1947

         

 **She needed to** stop. It was getting bad. Even at work all she could think about was him. About him firing off arrow after arrow, about arms bunching and bulging as he drew back. About the sight of his bare back as he shaved and the feeling of his hair in her fingers where she cut it. About his blue eyes with those flecks of sparkling green and that brown halo in the center. About his calloused fingers entwined with hers. She had to stop, to pull herself together. She was lusting over this man and she _couldn’t._ She was a widow and it was an insult to her husband’s memory to be having these kinds of thoughts about someone so soon after his death.

 _It’s been over a year,_ she tried to reason. _And longer than that if you count when he went to war._

She shook those thoughts out. It was wrong. _Wrong!_ Clint Barton was just there to fix up the place, not to fix her.

 _Since when do I need fixing,_ she scoffed to herself. _I’m strong and capable and…working as a telephone operator._ She closed her eyes and tried to be grateful she even had a job. Girls left and right were being let go, returning to kitchens and being resigned to roles as secretaries and nurses.

She sighed deeply and went off to grab some coffee.

The backroom was empty, but a fresh pot had been made recently and was still warm. She poured a mug, sipped it carefully, and tried not to think about how tired she was of being treated as something beneath men.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted, causing Natasha to jump slightly. She turned to face the owner of the voice and tried her damnedest to not roll her eyes.

“Mr. Keene, good morning.”

The building owner smiled and it made Natasha’s skin crawl.

He pushed past her and got himself a cup of coffee, spilling some and not bothering to clean it up.

“I never should have let that woman meet someone higher up,” he grumbled. “Should’ve known she’d trick that Stark boy into stealing her away.” He turned to Nat. “Now I have to get my own coffee. Can you believe that?”

Natasha forced her lips up into a neutral grin.

“I swear, if I ever see that Potts woman or the Stark boy again, I’ll give ‘em both more hell than either conniving little snake will know what to do with.” He took a sip, made a face, and then poured the cup down the sink. “I’d fire her on the spot if she ever came to work,” he growled. He stood up, straightened his shoulders, and turned to Natasha. He swept his eyes over Nat’s body, smiling at what he saw.   

“How would you like a better paying position, Miss…”

“Mrs. Barnes. And I’m not sure. It would depend on what you’re asking.”

Mr. Keene twisted his face into a falsely pleasant façade, one he’d use when trying to convince a small shop into becoming a part of his corporate empire. “I’m offering you better hours, better pay, and a chance to be up with some of the richest men in the area. You’d be my new secretary; pending your husband approves.”

“I’m a widow, Mr. Keene, and perfectly capable of making my own decisions,” she snapped back, sipping her coffee.

Keene smiled even wider. “Spunky. Good. I like a little fire.” He reached out and captured a strand of her red hair. “And something tells me you have a lot of that.”

Natasha calmly slipped her hair out of his hand. “Better pay?” The words resonated in her mind. Clint was doing his best to keep rebuilding costs to a minimum, but they were still there. And there were groceries and house payments and…

“Half again as much as you make now.”

She pressed her lips together, considering. On one hand Keene was a chauvinistic pig with a one-track mind and grabby hands. On the other, that was nothing she hadn’t been trained for in the Red Room. They had taught her how to handle men’s appetites, and how to fulfill them. And it meant more pay, more money to put towards fixing up the farm and getting it ready to turn a profit, to making James’s dream a reality.

“When would you like to interview?” she asked.

He leaned in. “How about you pop open that blouse and hike up that skirt and we’ll consider it a done deal.”

She kept her face devoid of any and all the horror she was feeling as she stood up and systematically undid the top few buttons on her blouse. Keene placed a hand on her back, pulling her close.

“Good girl,” he whispered, running his lips down her jaw and lower to her neck and chest. His hands ran down her skirt and then up, pulling the fabric revealing more of her legs.

Nat bit her lip and tried with all her might not to scream.

This was the price of a dream, of James’s dream. A dream that her renter was helping to make true.

Clint.

She pushed that idea from her mind. She wasn’t going to think about him while some other man had ahold of her. This was what she had to do. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before. She was trained for this. She could handle it.

Clint.

He flooded in, filling her thoughts with throwing knives and letting her drive and trusting her with his past. Of making her feel powerful and capable and worth something. Of letting her be the source of income. Of living by her rules. Of letting her place be his sanctuary and grave sight for his best friend.

He’d called her strong, believed she was.

Keene smashed his mouth to hers.

But she was strong.

Nat pulled away, slapping the man on the cheek, and keeping the sudden stream of tears at bay. “I’m sorry, Mr. Keene,” she began in a rush, avoiding the bewildered man’s gaze and buttoning her top, “but I believe I’ll have to decline your offer.”

She turned on her heel, mind focused on the doorway.

“If you leave this room, it won’t just be my offer that goes away,” he threatened.

Natasha stopped but kept her eyes on the exit.

“If you leave now, you will no longer work for me. And not just here, but in every place I own.”

Nat took in a breath, closed her eyes.

“And I know you’ve read the papers, sweetheart. You know that no one is hiring girls. So ask yourself, Mrs. Barnes. Can you really afford to leave?”

Natasha thought about it for a second, before nodding once. “Good day, Mr. Keene.” And she left.

Her hands were shaking as she drove home. Her body ached in a strange way, like she’d been stretched out of her skin and poured back in. She tried not to think of Keene’s hands and mouth, tried not to think about what this would mean for her. Keene practically owned the town.

She pulled up, went inside to shower and change her clothes, get the man out of her skin.

With her wet hair pulled up into a low bun at her neck, she ferociously attacked the dishes, scrubbing them with the same intensity she’d given her skin. She let the water run scalding hot, turning her hands bloody red. She didn’t feel the sting of the hot water until she pulled her hands away to wipe the tear leaking from her eye. The heat from her hand contrasted the cold skin of her face. She turned off the water, her senses returning, and stared at her burning hands. They were so red. _Caught red-handed,_ she thought. And that’s how she felt. She’d been caught, caught between her late husband’s dream and her own wishes.

She sat down, towel covering her giveaway hands.

What did she want?   

She’d never really considered it before; she’d never had to. The Red Room had made all the decisions for her until James bought her, and then she’d gone along with his ambitions. But now she was no longer at the Red Room and James was six feet under the snowy ground. What the hell was her next move?

She thought once more about Clint, about how he was similarly in the wind.

She stood up, laid the towel over the drying dishes, and looked out the window. She saw him entering the barn, red toolbox in his hand. He’d finished the barn itself, and now he was working on the machinery inside. And even though he’d sealed the walls, the wooden structure could still get awfully cold.

She heated up a pot of coffee, divvied it up into two mugs, bundled up in her heavy coat, and stepped outside.

“I brought coffee,” she announced as she entered the barn only to find a pair of legs sticking out from the knees down from under the Allis-Chalmers Model "B."

The legs moved with a grunt, and soon Clint’s head appeared, dirty and grease painted. He had a grin on his face that was lightly lopsided as if hearing the news of coffee had made him loopy with relief. He crawled out from under the tractor, wiped his hands on his army fatigue pants, and took the mug from Natasha.

“You’re an angel,” he praised as he took a sip, letting the dark drink filter down his throat and warm up his insides.

It took all of her training, all of her strength, to not let the punch his statement gave her appear on her face. _An angel_. _I nearly let a man have me today because it would’ve paid more._ She was a demon, not an angel. She was red hands and loose values. She was what her superiors told her to be.

But now she had no superiors. All she had was a dead husband’s dream she wasn’t even sure she wanted.

She plastered on a gentle smile and watched him sip away at her offering. She took a swallow of her own coffee, happy to let the burn of it through her. She wanted to tell him what happened, to get the horror off of her shoulders and balanced on someone else, even if it was only partially. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t let Clint know that there was no money coming in until she found a job. No. This was her problem. She had to fix it on her own. She didn’t need, didn’t _want_ , his help.

“So,” she started, shifting the subject, “you’re a roofer, a plumber, a carpenter, and now a mechanic. Honestly, is there nothing you can’t do?”

“Well, dance,” he shrugged, grin still in place. “But I’m getting lessons.”

She rolled her eyes at his smirk and ignored the pleasant heat that was starting up in her abdomen.

He shrugged again and took another sip of coffee. “I was born on a farm – more or less – was raised in a circus, and then enlisted in the army. Between all three I learned a lot about how things work, how they break, and how to fix ‘em.”       

She kept her tongue still and refrained from asking if he’d ever tried to fix _someone_. But she reminded herself she didn’t need fixing, didn’t need him. “And other than shooting arrows and learning handy man skills, what did you do at the circus?” It was a distraction. She wanted something to take her mind away from being nearly ravished and absolutely unemployed. She ignored her shaking hands and chalked it up to the cold air.

“Well,” he rubbed his neck with his free hand, the other holding the mug close, “I did some flying.”

“Piloting?”

“No, I got a touch of that in the army.”

She narrowed her brows.

He waved her off, “Some other time. No, with the circus it was less jet engine and more trapeze. Gliding through the air with nothing underneath you but the ground so far below, and then being plucked from the fall by a set of steady hands. It was freedom and independence followed by sincere trust. I knew with every cell in my body that the other artist wasn’t going to let me fall, and she knew I would always extend mine out. Our hands would meet because we had faith in each other to reach out.” He turned to Nat. “It’s strange, having that kind of trust in someone.”

“Did you trust Phil that way?”

“Phil tucked me in like a goddamn four-year-old.” He sighed. “I think there was a part of his mind that was convinced I was his son come back to life or something. So yeah, he would’ve done anything to keep me safe. Even if that something was letting Laufeyson…end him instead of me.”

She set her coffee on the fender of the tractor and took his hand in both of hers. “You blame yourself, don’t you?”

“It was my fault.” He pulled his hand from hers and she shoved away the stab of pain that brought. “Listen, Tasha,” he began, taking in a sharp breath, “Phil’s not the only one I owe, okay? My whole unit… by the end… I was the only one to make it out of Germany. So I started with Phil and have been working my way around, repaying all of them.” He knelt in front of the toolbox, setting his coffee on the ground. “Which means, come March, once this place is back up, I…” he let out a deep sigh, “I’m leaving. I have to. Not that free room and board ain’t great; it is. And not that you’re not…you know…great too. You are. But…”

“But you owe them.”

His eyes met hers. “Yeah.”

She fought the frown that made its way to her face, picked up her mug, and turned to leave. She heard the scratch of fabric on ground followed by, “Tasha, wait,” before feeling his warm hand latch onto her upper arm. He spun her around, gently placing his other hand on her other arm, staring her straight on. “I’ll come back.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat then cursed herself when she saw in Clint’s eyes that he noticed. “Wouldn’t want the guy who actually farms this place to mess up all my hard work,” he joked awkwardly. He smirked on the end to help further the illusion but neither bought it.

She tried desperately to ignore how close he was. She could feel his warmth spreading into her from his hands. His breath was clouding up in front of him, combining with hers. She needed to get away. He was so close, too close.

“Tasha,” he whispered, his head bending to her level.

She needed to move away but only found herself leaning in. Closer, slowly.

Their lips touched and she felt something fiery and explosive rocket through her. He slanted his mouth over hers, taking her lips between his. God, they were soft. Chapped and rough from the cold, but their gentleness belied any discomfort. He tasted of coffee, smelled of engine grease and dirt and underneath all of it was something uniquely him.

His hands moved from her arms, one burying itself in her red curls and the other carefully pulling her closer at the small of her back.

They broke for air, but closed the gap instantly, moving their lips in synch with the other as if they’d done this a thousand times.

Natasha threw her arms around his neck, sinking further and further into the pleasure that was her renter. She played with the soft hair at the nape of his neck and moaned into his mouth as his hand felt along the length of her back.

It was cruel how the memory of another man doing something similar earlier that morning crept into the edges of her mind and destroyed her beautiful illusion. It plagued her mind and ripped away all the warmth from the sturdy body pressed up against hers. In one instant the most perfect kiss she’d ever experienced shattered and her only reaction was fear.

She put a hand on Clint’s chest and shoved him away. His blown pupils looked extra sad in his bewildered eyes. “Tash-”

“Don’t.” She grabbed her mug from where she’d dropped it and marched out of the barn and away from that fleeting moment of happiness.

She wasn’t designed for that, for romantic escapades in a snowy barn over steaming cups of coffee. She’d been made for hungry men, for cruel worlds. She’d been trained, conditioned to know that love wasn’t something flowery and done up in ribbons and sunshine. Love was currency, and the world took its share. You paid rent to live and the money came from love.

She made dinner in a haze of renegade emotions. And when Clint came in, she felt her chest tighten at how injured his eyes were. “Tasha,” he tried again.

“It didn’t happen, Clint,” she shot down. They ate in silence and she watched as he rose wordlessly from the table, grabbed the lantern, and went to shoot his arrows without her.

She ran boiling hot water in the sink to do the dishes and this time she didn’t feel the pain at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man! 1947 starts off with a bang. Poor Nat, poor Clint. Why do I do this to them? 
> 
> A story banner has been made and is back on chapter 1, so check that out. 
> 
> On another note, I'd like to mention laraemrys pointed out that MASH units were not called that until after the war. Thank you, laraemrys, for fact checking. Also thank you, JuliaAurelia, for your point on the seating arrangement of the Stark party. Keep watching Downton Abbey. :) 
> 
> Unrelated, IoMB is coming right along. I'm currently on scene 10 out of who knows how many. This one will probably be a bit longer than the other two simply because it has more characters. 
> 
> And as always, thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. You are the BEST!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the end notes AFTER finishing this chapter. Small pseudo disclaimer in them. Thanks. - Z. Socks

**It was her** fifth week in the café and her fifth week with no luck on the job search. Keene hadn’t been lying; no one was looking to hire women and with him in control of most of the town, her options were even slimmer.

She opened the day’s paper reluctantly, flipping to the classifieds with an air of hesitancy. She scanned the page, circling the few options in a black ink pen she’d borrowed off the waitress.

Her savings were dwindling away into weekly groceries and cups of black coffee. The café gave her a place to stay for the hours she typically would be working so Clint wouldn’t get suspicious. Plus it was quiet and often clustered with businessmen. She’d approached several and asked about any positions open. The response ranged from quiet and apologetic no’s, to an annoyed hand wave, to one poorly concealed grope. God, she was tired of this.  

She was also starting to get low on savings.

It would be difficult enough to tell Clint she was going broke but with the new tension between them, it was going to be impossible.

They’d hardly said two words to each other since the kiss in the barn, and she was starting to miss him. And it was inexplicably strange to consider that. For over a year she’d been entirely alone and before that, James had been off at war. So why was this different? Why were a few weeks not talking to Clint making her feel…lonely?             

So she decided once more to not tell him. It wasn’t his business anyway. Except that her part of the agreement was to feed him and groceries cost money.

She sighed and scanned the paper again, waiting for the phone in the café’s corner to free up so she could make some calls.

“Mind if I join you?” a gentle, English-accented voice inquired.

Natasha looked up to find a woman holding a cup on her saucer and indicating the empty chair across from Nat with her chin.

“Go ahead,” Natasha answered, pulling the paper off the table and folding it up to tuck it under her chair.

“I appreciate it.”

Nat nodded noncommittally.

The British woman had her hair done in gentle fingerwaves, and bright red lipstick was slicked on her lips. She was well put together and kept her pinky extended as she sipped her tea. Nat couldn’t help but internally smirk at the stereotype.

“Any luck?” the woman asked.

“With what?”

“Job hunting. That was what you were doing, correct?”

Nat pressed her lips together and tilted her head in a look of taunting. Her eyes locked with the woman’s and dared her to push forward on this.

“Oh. So sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. See,” she set down her tea, “I’m sort of on the hunt too. And I thought maybe, well maybe we could help each other. I’ve seen you in here a lot and then I noticed the circles in the paper when I walked by and…” she hung her head. “It’s just hard to do this alone.”

Natasha regarded the woman before her, assessed her momentarily before sweeping the paper from under her chair and handing to her, rising up in the same motion, bag in hand. “Here. You’ll probably have more luck anyway.” She was a few steps away before the woman quietly called, “I know what you did for us during the war.” It was enough to get Natasha to turn around.

The woman held a hand out to the seat Natasha had just vacated. Against her better judgment, Nat took her chair, but kept her eyes on the silverware in case this grew hostile. Clint had taught her how to wield them, and a fork and butter knife might not pierce much, but it could at least be a distraction.

“You were trusted with secrets,” the woman continued, dropping her voice and leaning in. “You patched through calls that, in the long run, changed the course of the war.” She stirred her tea, but kept her gaze loosely on Natasha. “It must feel like the whole world turned its back on you.”

“It does,” Nat admitted. “But that’s to be expected.”

The woman frowned. She added more sugar to her tea from the bowl of cubes on the table. “He’s very brave.”

Nat raised a brow.

“Your renter.”

She almost left again.

“I only bring him up because it was you who helped bring boys like him home, and I believe that service deserves a favor.”

“A favor? What-”

“There’s another war coming, Miss Romanova.”

The name sent a shiver down Nat’s spine. It had been years since she’d heard her own name, her _real_ name.

“And this time it won’t be with artillery. It will be a witch hunt, a cleansing of the American people.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s already started on Capitol Hill. Senators, representatives, governors, agents, they’ll all being investigated for one thing. Communism.”

Nat rolled her eyes. “I’m not a communist.”

“No, but you are Russian and in their books, that already makes you red.” She took another sip. “I’m only telling you this because of what you did for us. You brought home many of our own, your renter included. So my advice to you is to blend in, lay low, and if they start coming for you, leave.”

“You mean run? Turn my back and let them chase me around?” She played with her silverware. She picked up the knife and twirled it in her fingers. “What if I’d rather fight back?”

The woman shrugged. “Then fight back. But remember, there’s no shame in going undercover.”

“You really think I’ll need to hide?”

The woman sat back in her chair and stared at Natasha as if she were a young pupil under her tutelage. “Russian woman slips into the United States posing as a mail-order-bride, her American Hero husbands ends up dead, soon after she quits her job at the operating building where she would have had access to government secrets should she have listened in to the right calls. In the meantime she rents a room to a communist sympathist. And that’s not even going into their affair as they pose as a married couple at the Stark Christmas Dinner, allegedly to pull secrets from the guests to send back to Mother Russia.”

Nat glared.

“See how easily it would be to twist your situation?” She set her drink aside and grabbed her handbag. “Go to ground, Natasha. Leave, find a man, settle down, have children. The more you bury yourself in the American Dream, the safer you’ll be.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

The woman stood, shrugging a shoulder. “Elope to Canada with your renter.” She ended it with a wink, stood up, exited, and then vanished into the passenger door of a waiting white car.

Natasha finished her coffee and rolled out the paper again. As she did a white card slipped from the pages.

MARGARET CARTER

SSR

And scribbled below it was:

_If you ever need a hand_

_going to ground._

She tucked the card into her bag, and brought the paper with her to make her calls. She glared at the circled boxes and decided she’d try the nanny position first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, Peggy's in on this...
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: I know that the Cold War would just be in its inception and McCarthyism doesn't really get going until the 50s, but I like to believe that an advanced intelligence organization like the SSR along with Peggy's own insight would know a thing or two about what's coming. Please just go with it. 
> 
> Also I will be out of town on a camping trip next weekend, so next week's update will be either Monday or Tuesday. No WiFi, what'cha gonna do? 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who reads, comments, Kudos, and bookmarks. You make it possible. See you next time. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Clint had developed** an awful cough about a week after her conversation with Miss Carter. The pair still weren’t talking to each other but she knew when he failed to come down to breakfast one morning, that the sickness had taken a turn.

She knocked on his door and his croaked, “yeah,” was enough to have her already searching her mind for the doctor’s number.

“Not feeling well?” she asked gently.

He shook his head and only coughed harder. “Had pneumonia as a kid,” he choked out. “Think I got it again.”

She stepped over to him, felt his forehead with her hand and frowned. He was blazing hot and clammy. She pulled the blankets to his waist and told him she’d call the doctor.

Dr. Blake met her at the house only a few hours later, his nurse, Jane, in tow.  

It had been a town debate since the moment the immigrant doctor had taken up residence whether he had feelings for his assisting nurse. On some days they were closer than a couple that had been married for fifty years. On others, they looked ready to destroy each other. But from the moment Natasha had met them – a visit to his office her first year in town for a cold – she knew there was something special between the good doctor and his nurse.

It was in their eyes. Dr. Blake looked at Jane like she was the sun after a grueling winter, and the nurse looked back like she was perfectly content to be his warmth. There was love there, undoubtedly. But the form that love took had its good days and bad.

In the end they were balance. Blake was flighty where Jane was practical, and where Jane reached for the stars, the doctor was her ground to stand on to sail among them.

Nat was told to stay outside the room while Clint was examined – doctor/patient confidentiality not to mention decency. She swept the floor, washed the dishes, and was on her way to fold laundry, when the door finally opened and the doctor and nurse slipped out.

“Is he okay?”

Jane put a finger to her lips. “He’s asleep right now.”

Blake handed her an amber bottle, reciting the instructions on the label. “It should help with the coughing.” He paused, walking further from the door. “How much do you know about his history?”

Nat bit her lip. “Not much. Why?”

The doctor glanced at Jane and she nodded, a secret conversation passing between them in that moment. “I noticed a lot of scarring on his… well everywhere.”

“He was in the war, doctor.”

“Awfully white to be that recent.” He frowned. “I was actually talking about the one on his chest.”

“Over his left lung,” Jane piped in.

Nat shook her head. She didn’t even remember seeing that scar, not that she’d been looking. “He hasn’t said much.”

“It looks like a surgical wound. Has it been damaged within the last five to ten years?”

She shrugged.

“Well whomever patched it up must’ve been one hell of a surgeon. You don’t often have an injury like that without complications.” He looked at the medicine bottle in her hands. “Twice a day,” he reminded her. “And I’ll be by often to check on him and make sure that nothing goes awry with that lung.”

He left, Jane following behind him after offering Natasha a small smile. Nat watched them out the window as they left, letting the curtain fall when she saw the pair take each other’s hand, giving them privacy.

She went about her house chores, trying not to worry about the sick man in the next room. She prayed to every named and unnamed deity that he not develop any complications. She didn’t need that hassle. Plus a part of her didn’t think she could survive one more death, especially of a man she’d gotten relatively close to.

She was a black widow after all.

 

It was five in the evening when she gave him his dose. He’d been out for most of the time between, sleeping as soundly as he could with fluid in his lungs. She measured out the dosage and helped him take it, offering a glass of water to wash the stuff down. He made a face at the taste of the medicine that she might have found funny if he weren’t so sick.

He coughed and it gripped ahold of him, forcing him to sit up and hack away. When he was through, Nat helped him lie back down, hands on his shoulders.

“Thanks, Nat,” he muttered, swallowing hard and painfully.

She ran her fingers through his hair and didn’t even realize she was doing it until he moved his head deeper into her touch. She didn’t stop. Denying him of something so soothing seemed cruel.

Sighing she asked what the doctor had been curious about, if only to settle the intrigue the conversation had stirred up in her. “How did you puncture your lung?”

He didn’t reply at first, just kept leaning into her hand as it moved in his hair. But eventually he mumbled, “My mentor at the circus and I had a disagreement.” He tried to breathe deeply, coughed for a while. “He hit me hard enough a rib snapped and hit my lung.” It seemed to require all of his willpower to take in another breath.

Natasha stroked his hair steadily, waiting for him to open his eyes.  

“They took me to this tiny clinic just outside of town, but the doctor wasn’t home. His daughter was and she said she could help.”

Natasha kept her face neutral but mentally marveled at the idea of someone so willingly letting a woman operate on them. Women “weren’t doctors or surgeons.” And yet, if this ended how she thought it did, then Dr. Blake’s high compliment went to the supposed weaker sex.

“She stitched me up real good,” Clint continued weakly, the illness zapping his energy. “Dr. Morse. Bobbi Morse.” He opened his eyes and sleepily grinned. “We had a thing, you know. Went steady for a bit. She’d come to the show and I’d go there and watch her look through microscopes.” He coughed roughly, settling back down eventually and letting Nat continue to stroke his hair. “She wanted to research medicine, was real smart and everything.”

“She sounds perfect,” Nat commented flatly. She was wrestling with something deep in her gut that felt an awful lot like jealousy. But such an emotion was for petty young girls and romance novels. She was _not_ jealous of Morse for loving this man first.

“She was pretty great,” Clint admitted, tired grin still on his face. “’Cept she left.”

Nat paused her hand movement and knotted her brows.

“Got a letter from Uncle Sam to work on some super secret defense project. So she said a quick goodbye and then…left.” He tried to shrug on the end but it only made him cough more.

Nat could feel the tension in his muscles as he hacked and hacked, trying to draw in a breath. He fell back against the pillows and moaned. “God, this stuff is never fun.”

“Would a bath help?” Nat asked, thinking of the strain in his muscles and how to relax them. He seemed to consider it before nodding. She stood up to start the water when he called out weakly, “Ya know, Tasha. You remind me of her.”

And if that made her smile her back was turned so he couldn’t see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor, Jane, and Bobbi! Yay for cameos! 
> 
> (Clint says he had pneumonia as a "kid" but really he was in his early teens and with the circus. Barney stole the penicillin his brother needed to get better. I had plans for Clint to tell Nat this story, but felt it slowed down the pace and making Clint talk that much with pneumonia seemed mean.) 
> 
> Sorry again for the delay in posting. The trip went really well and was a bunch of fun, though! 
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing! I hope you continue to do so. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**She’d mulled it** over all night long: her feelings, his answer, Bobbi’s work. Something wasn’t adding up on that last one. She could feel it in her bones that there was more to the story. Maybe Clint knew, maybe he didn’t. Either way, she had a feeling someone else would.

She sat at the café, circling job openings and then left the paper open while she went and ordered another coffee. When she returned there was a new classified circled and certain letters were underlined. So she picked up her handbag, the paper, and left the mug on the table to meet her new acquaintance in the alley behind the café.  

“I didn’t expect a response so soon,” Carter quipped.

“This isn’t about my future.”

“Oh?”

Nat let her bag drop to her free hand, preparing it to swing if anything out of the ordinary caught her keen eye. “What aren’t you telling me about my renter?”

Carter tensed like she’d been caught stealing priceless jewels before relaxing into her previous stance, smoothing out her skirt in a mundane manner. “Clint Barton is no longer a person of interest for us,” she stated calmly, evenly, like a rehearsed performance.

“But he was before,” Nat challenged. She took a step closer. “If my life is in danger because I’m harboring him, then I feel I need to know about it.”

Carter pressed her lips into a line, slumped her shoulders. She leaned in, dropping her voice to a delicate whisper. “What I’m about to tell you is classified. Top secret classified.”

“Keep my mouth shut; I get it,” Nat retorted.

Carter sighed. “Barton was at the at the top of a very short list.”

“List for what?”

“Contingency plans. In case the Nazis got to Captain America and killed him and his men before they destroyed Hydra.”

“Are you saying that-”

“Clint Barton was plan B. Pending a serum could be made available and should the worst have happened, he was to be the next Captain America.”

Nat blinked at the idea. Clint? As Captain America? “Who else was on that list?”

“That one I can’t tell you.“

“What if I’m cashing in my favor?”

“My favor was to warn you of the witch hunt trickling down from the government and into the population,” Carter defended, crossing her arms, narrowing her eyes. 

“Yet you’re still filling me in on this ‘top secret’ information.”

“You were Bucky’s wife. He had a picture of you in his pocket. He showed me.”

Nat stared at her wide-eyed, trying to figure her angle. “You were there?”

“I represented the organization the Captain and his team were working with. I was close with him – them.”

Nat pulled back. She looked at the woman in front of her and read into her features, her body language. And as she looked she found something sad and chilling. “The Captain meant something to you, didn’t he?”

“That is not part of this discussion.”

And that was as much of a yes as Natasha needed. She matched Carter’s posture, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine. How did someone get on the list?”

“Two recommendations were sent in and reviewed. In the case of Barton, he had probably the best combination of any of them. The first being from a researcher who worked with Erskine on the super soldier serum-”

“Bobbi Morse,” Nat filled in.

Carter reluctantly nodded. “The second was an encrypted message from a POW camp near Salzburg, sent by one of our top agents.”

“Phil,” Natasha supplied, suppressing her surprise with gloating.

Carter raised a brow but went on. “It was no accident that the Captain and his team liberated that camp. Although the loss of a man like Coulson was devastating.” She took in a slow breath and relaxed her defensive posture. “Afterwards, Barton was reassigned to a unit that was secretly comprised of all agents assigned to protect him until either Hydra was destroyed or Captain America died.

“But, a spy got ahold of the list. He sold it to Hydra and suddenly our backup plans were being assassinated left and right. Barton’s unit did as instructed and protected him at all costs. They shoved him into an underground cellar and then took the bomb on themselves.”

“And he was the only one to survive,” Natasha finished, realization dawning on her. “He knows?”

Carter nodded. “Once he took out Hydra, Cap sacrificed himself to keep them down. A contingency was no longer needed. And for men like Clint Barton, a sacrifice deserves payment. So he’s bounced around the country, doing what he can for those who helped him survive. We’ve monitored him from a distance all the while. But it threw us for a loop when he found you. As far as we knew, Bucky hadn’t mentioned you; kept you on a need to know basis. So it’s concerning that he’s stayed around for as long as he has.” She tilted her head to the side, a sad smile coming to her face. “But I think I know why.”

Natasha looked down at the ground, avoiding Carter’s implication.

“And I think you know why too.”

“He’s leaving in March,” she snapped back, done with this turn of the conversation. “And I’d really prefer it if you stopped spying on me.” She turned on her heel, signifying that the conversation was over. But just before she reached the corner she heard Carter gently call after her, “Don’t push yourself away, Natasha. You’ll only hurt worse in the end.” And the look on her face was pure regret, pure longing for a thing that could have been. For a dance that was saved too long.

 

Dr. Blake kept his word and visited Clint every other day, monitoring his progress and keeping an eye on his lung.

Nat watched as her renter got better, stronger, every day. But the healing process was slow, and even when the doctor declared Clint off bed rest, he was still to take it easy. So he helped Natasha around the house with simple tasks like sweeping floors, folding laundry, and darning socks. (He actually got quite good at that.)

She was surprised to come home one day to a nice dinner all set out on the table. So maybe the chicken was a little dry, and maybe the beans were undercooked, and maybe the number of pots and pans to clean up was double what it should’ve been. It was nice and sweet and the radio playing Bing Crosby was the perfect touch.

“Thanks, Tasha,” he said as they ate what they could of the meal. The bread loaf was a little two brown and chewy and tasted burnt at the crust, but the center was light and fluffy. “For taking me in.”

She stopped eating and looked at him, really looked. And maybe it was the candles on the table, maybe it was the radio, maybe it was her conversation with Carter concerning his service to those who sacrificed themselves for him. But she saw it then. His heart.

It looked a little roughed up like the rest of him, broken and mended in places with scars as reminders. But it was enormous and loving and generous and she was now a part of it. If only in that she’d returned some of the kindness he’d spilled into the world.

“You’re welcome,” she answered back, grinning at him in a way that felt old and familiar, like a sweater that hadn’t been worn since last winter.

He beamed at her and then shyly brought up, “You wanna throw some knives after dinner?”

And maybe it was the combination of the atmosphere plus the world slipping back into place, but she felt excited to say, “Yes.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww. And they're back to making heart eyes at each other. 
> 
> So Clint might have been the next Captain America, or at least a super soldier. (I feel like now is a good time to tell you that after IoMB is done, my next series will play with this idea... but that's in the future.)
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has read, commented, Kudos-ed, and bookmarked. You all really are the best!!


	14. Chapter 14

**They were back** to their old routine, snarking at each other and joking around; she’d even danced with him one night to a tune on the radio. She would go in and look for jobs while he’d continue to fix up the place. Everything was back to normal, except she was twenty-five dollars shy of bankruptcy, and lying to the man she had officially fallen for.

The arrival of Dr. Blake’s bill was what tipped her over the edge. She had to do something.

With no other options, she gathered what she could from the house: silver candlesticks that were a wedding present, jewelry from earlier days, even the painting that hung in her bedroom. She loaded them up in the coupe and drove into town, pulling into a dingy pawnshop on the outskirts.      

SITWELL’s the sign read as she passed through the heavy front door. A bell rang out to announce her presence.

“Be right with you,” a voice called from a room in the back.

Natasha looked around, taking in the sight of the shop and trying to shake off the depressed feeling the rows of shelves gave her. There were dolls with intact but worn down faces, their dresses permanently rumpled where they’d once been tucked under the arm of a little girl. Tin soldiers with canine teeth marks marring their bodies were set in a way that they might be on display if you were looking for that kind of thing. Saw blades and wrenches, tools from a decade ago when passing through, dust-covered farmers were trading in their last belongings to earn a few more dollars to eat. Pearl earrings and diamond rings from women just as desperate as she was. 

Lives were here, crumpled up in heaps of peddled dreams.

“Sorry about that,” the voice spoke again, coming to behind the counter. The man who walked out was relatively short, bald, and had thick glasses on his face that shrouded his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

Natasha set the candlesticks and painting down on the counter’s surface first, going about it clinically, slowly, as to not look eager. Lastly she added the jewelry box, opening the lid so he could peer at the adornments inside.

Sitwell picked up a candlestick, flipped it around, glanced at the bottom for any marks. “Real silver?” he asked.

Natasha nodded.

He moved on to the painting, frowning almost instantly, and setting it off to the side. He picked up a few necklaces, examined some bracelets, even gave her a look when he noticed her engagement and wedding rings in the mix. But he paused and sucked in a breath as he picked up one particular piece. “Hello, what have we here?” He pulled out a silver chair and with it a teardrop ruby. “Is that European?”

Natasha panicked. She snapped out her hand and snatched it from Sitwell’s grip, ignoring his agape mouth. She didn’t remember putting that in there, but it didn’t matter. “That one’s not for sale,” she pushed, shoving the necklace into her jacket pocket. She waved a hand at the valuables on the counter. “How much?”

Sitwell removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “I can maybe do seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five!”

“Look sweetheart,” he began, putting up a palm, “People aren’t really buying,” he glanced at the candlesticks and painting, “antiques and heirlooms. We just won a war. People want _new_ things. They want to move on.”

Nat picked up the engagement ring. “That’s a real diamond.”

“Yeah, a small, scratched up diamond.” He redirected his eyes onto her pocket. “Now that ruby on the other hand… that’s new. It’s attractive. It’s exotic. And that’s what I can sell.”

Natasha dug her hand into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the necklace to form a protective cocoon. “As I said, it’s not for sale.”

Sitwell leaned his forearms on the counter. “Lady, do you want to look pretty or do you want to eat? Hmm? That’s what this comes down to.”

Nat kept her mouth shut, rolling it over in her mind. There was no way in hell she was going to give up the necklace Clint gave her. It meant too much to her now. Even if he did leave and she never saw him again, she’d still have that as a reminder for the man who gave back what had been given to him at the price of the lives of others.

“Tell you what. You throw in the necklace and I’ll do one thirty for the lot.”

One hundred and thirty dollars. That could buy her enough time to find a job. It would give her a few more weeks, maybe even last long enough to have the farm going. She tried to run the calculation in her head…

“We have a deal?”

Nat felt the smooth planes of the ruby in her pocket, pictured the way it caught the light and shone like a star in the night sky.

Could she do this?

Could she sell her one piece of Clint?

It felt like a betrayal. Maybe she could buy it back once the farm got going…

She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the gem, the delicate cold of the silver chain. She pulled it from her pocket. “One fifty,” she demanded.

Sitwell didn’t look amused. “One forty.”

Nat shook her head. “One fifty.”  

The man rolled his eyes, but stuck out his hand. “One fifty,” he mumbled.

Natasha took one last look at the beautiful ruby necklace in her hand. It felt like she was selling her heart from her chest. Her gut twisted and she could sense tears beginning to form in her eyes.

She shoved them all away and dropped the gem into Sitwell’s grubby hand.

He smiled as he put her items into a box, opened the register, and counted out her money. It felt wrong in her hand, like the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas.   

She left with a full purse and an empty chest and a sickened stomach. And they stayed there, heavily weighing her down, no matter how hard she tried to put them all from her mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Admittedly I took some liberties with the dollar amounts. Sorry.) 
> 
> For those of you who are waiting for IoMB part 3, I'm about halfway done! Summer classes in there took up more time than I thought. But I'm still hoping to have it out in the fall. Also, before part 3 is released, I plan on posting a one-shot that's basically part 2.5. I'll explain more about that whenever I post it (which will again be some time in the fall or late summer.) 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. You're the best and I'll see you next week.


	15. Chapter 15

  **On the first** day of March he left her a single pink carnation on the table and later apologized that he didn’t have enough for a rose. She kissed his cheek and said she liked carnations better.

The next week they visited a nearby farm to pick up a calf to raise for meat, a few hens for eggs, and unintentionally brought home a black barn cat Natasha named Liho. As Clint loaded up the calf and crate of hens, Natasha sat in the passenger seat and stroked the kitty, keeping it calm. Clint tried to get in an ear scratch as well, but Liho hissed. Nat laughed at the comical speed at which Clint drew back his hand. He frowned at her but eventually joined in.   

On the last day of that same week he hit his thumb with a hammer, bruising the digit and destroying the nail. She bandaged it up, taping it so that the jagged part of his cracked nail wouldn’t snag on anything. Lastly, she kissed it, sealing her work, signing it like an artist.

On the first day of the third week of March, he told her everything was ready to go.

“You’ll have to find some hands, people to run it,” he explained, digging in the dirt with his shoe.

She nodded then added, “You’re leaving soon then?”

“Tomorrow.”    

She hated how her chest tightened at the word. She knew this was coming, had been silently watching this day slip forward, making its methodical advance. The barn was fixed, the equipment inside tuned; the calf had fresh hey in its stall and the chickens a nesting box. The roof was patched, the sink running smoothly; lights had been replaced, squeaky doors oiled. The porch had new planks in the weak spots and a new coat of paint. Everything was top notch.

But everything had now been touched by him, contained his presence, and Natasha wasn’t sure if she could bear that.

Clint mumbled something about needing to pack and started for the stairs when she stopped him. She needed more time.

“There’s the town festival tomorrow,” she stated, grabbing his arm in hopeful fingers. “One more day won’t hurt, right?”

His grin was slow but wide. He wrapped his fingers around hers on his bicep, gave her hand a squeeze. “Nah, one more day won’t hurt.”

 

It was the annual Start of Spring festival, complete with farmers markets, a penny arcade, and plenty of food. There was a parade in the morning to kick it off, and a grandstand kept music going all day long. Clint had won Natasha a pink teddy bear at milk toss, but she offered it to a lonely little girl who was pouting at having dropped her ice cream.

It was a fairer year this time around. Often the festival was still shaking off the remnants of snow, and one year it had to be canceled due to a late-coming blizzard.

But the day was sunny and decently warm, enough so that Natasha eventually took off her jacket, leaving her arms bare to the sun, soaking it up. Clint laughed as she spun around in the park like a little girl first learning how it feels to have the wind take her skirt and give it a whirl. She settled down beside him, pulling out the boxed lunches they’d gotten from one of the church booths.

The grass was cool under them, but the sun was brilliant. They picked at blades of new spring grass, letting their meal of pork, mashed potatoes, corn, and beans settle while they laid among the shade of a park tree. Clint picked a brave little daisy, one that had dared to look winter in the face and bloom anyway. He rolled over to Natasha and tucked it behind her ear. She grinned up at him, resting a hand on his cheek. He leaned in, giving her time to commit or run, but she stayed still as if trying to decide for herself.

“Clint,” she breathed.

A red rubber ball bounced their way and a pack of young boys followed it, squealing with delight. Clint smiled at her before turning over, picking up the ball and spinning it on his finger. The boys were instantly raptured as he let it roll off his finger and onto his hand, sending it up his arm, across the back of his shoulders, and down the other arm. He tossed it back to them, and they thanked him with reverent awe before running off.  

“Circus,” Clint reminded as he took in Natasha’s raised eyebrow. He tried to lean in again, but she sat up, pulling the flower out of her hair, and spun it absently in her fingers. “We should probably go home, get changed for the dance tonight,” she mentioned.

She stood up before he could answer, strolling off in the direction of the coupe. Clint sighed. He knew she wasn’t pulling away just to be playful. She was scared, maybe even annoyed for allowing herself to fall for him. But he didn’t want to push her and it wasn’t like it would matter. He was leaving.

And he knew how much that hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short one this time. But next week things happen...
> 
> By the way, a pink carnation is supposed to mean "I'll never forget you" and I thought that was just too perfect, so it made it in. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking!!!


	16. Chapter 16

**Natasha took a** long hard look at herself in the mirror on her dresser. Her hair was pinned up in ringlets, although no fancy shell combs or glittering pins adorned it. Her wrists had no shine and felt a little bland since she’d gone with the short-sleeved dress. The dipped, round neckline was left unfilled and plain. She had nothing to dress it up.

With a sigh she steeled herself to it. She’d done what she had to. So what if she had no jewelry, no shiny baubles to catch the light? She had her pride and the farm and she could hold her head high.

But the simple navy blue dress really could have used a teardrop ruby necklace and she knew it.

She met Clint downstairs. He was in the same dark grey suit he’d worn to the Stark party, looking sharp and trimmed and polished. He took off his hat as she descended, beaming at her with a kind of light in his eyes she couldn’t ignore.  

“You look amazing,” he admired.

Natasha felt her cheeks go warm, her chest grow tight. “Thank you.” She stepped past him to the door, grabbing her coat and laying it over her arm. “Ready?”

He pressed his lips into a line and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re missing something.”

She tilted her head.

He came closer, taking her hand in his and pulling something from his trouser pocket with the other one. He placed it in her palm and she felt the world come to a halt.

She couldn’t meet his eyes, felt her own start to rim with moisture. A stab of pain ripped through her at the sight, at the implication it brought. It was the necklace, the one he’d given her, the one she’d sold. It was in her hand and that meant he knew she’d given it away.

“Clint,” she choked, “I can explain.”

He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “I already know, Tasha.”

She looked up at him fighting back her tears even more when she saw the gentle light in his. “How?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes upwards, smirking, “Gossipy little town. I knew less than a week after you were…after you quit.”

His hands were large and warm on her arms and her thoughts stumbled at that a part of her never wanted them to go away. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d say something.”

She looked at the ruby in her hand, feeling ashamed and embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face upwards to catch her eyes. “Don’t be. Tasha, I’m _proud_ of you. You stood up for yourself, respected yourself. You knew there would be consequences and you did the right thing anyway. You made hard choices, kept at it, kept this place afloat. Tasha, you’re _incredible_.”

Her blush from earlier was back and burning her cheeks. His eyes were fixed, intense, and she didn’t mind getting lost in them, searching their depths for those green flakes and that ring of brown near his pupils.

“Were you mad,” she wondered, indicating the necklace with her eyes, “when you saw it?”

“It hurt,” he admitted. “But a little old-fashioned veteran threatening put the squeeze on the guy for some information.” He smirked again. “Said you drove the price up pretty high for it.”

She huffed a small laugh, still keeping tears at bay. A moment passed before a realization hit her. “What did you sell to get it back?”

He shook his head, but she felt his hands tighten a fraction on her arms. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

He regarded her in his watchful eyes, weighing the truth and her question. “Tell you what; go by there sometime. You’ll see it.”   

She frowned but let it drop. He’d trusted her; she’d return the favor.

“Now,” he began, slipping his hands down to hers, taking the necklace from her grip. He spun her around, keeping one set of their hands locked, until her back was almost touching his chest. He undid the clasp and surrounded her neck with his arms on either side, letting the ruby settle at her collarbone. He fastened it, and couldn’t help but follow it with a light kiss to the side of her neck. She felt her blood heat up, her heart pump faster. “Let’s go dancing,” he whispered, his breath warming her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAWWW. :) 
> 
> I'm breaking this scene up into two parts, so bonus chapter today! Hit that next chapter button!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ! This is a bonus chapter; make sure you read the chapter posted before this one. 
> 
> ALSO, if you notice there are two new tags added to this work. Yes, that's right. We may all sigh with relief and say, "Finally."   
> Now for anyone who may not want to read the graphic bits, I've denoted where things start heating up with * and where it ends with * as well.   
> Now, on with the show.

**Was it possible** to be drunk on happiness?

The question entered Natasha’s mind as she swung and swayed with her renter to the band blaring jazz and swing long after the stars had come out to shine. She laughed as they tried the partnered Charleston and Clint kept tripping up. But his beaming grin kept the mood light, and neither took the thing too seriously.

They settled closer than usual when the music slowed to something more romantic and sweet. As the song went on, Natasha found herself resting her head on Clint’s chest, their clasped hands next to her. He pulled her closer with each passing moment, and she let her eyes close, focusing on nothing but the sound of the brass in tune to his heartbeat.

She felt his lips on her hair then forehead when she looked up at him.

The atmosphere was soft, other couples just as close and happy as they were.

 _Yes,_ she decided. _It was possible._

But like all intoxications, she’d have to sober up eventually. And when they got home, that moment seemed to have arrived.

They were still smiling, still breaking out into laughter just by looking at each other. Toeing off shoes and dropping handbags, shedding coats. Hand in hand and drunk on happiness.

But a moment passed and the laughter died down. Clint’s smile faded into a tight line accented by the curve of his slumped shoulders. “I need to pack,” he murmured wearily as if the weight of his belongings were in his soul instead of on his back. But their hands stayed locked together, neither of them wanting to let go.

Natasha wondered if this was how Cinderella felt when she heard the clock striking midnight. She knew the night was over, but every lingering moment was in super sharp focus, embedding frame by frame into her memory.

Clint closed his eyes and let go of her hand. It felt instantly cold.

“I know why you have to go,” she spewed in a rush.

He shrugged. “I owe them.”

“I know _why_ you owe them, why they saved you.”

He looked at her with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.  

“I can’t say how I know; I’d probably be court marshaled or put to death for treason,” she dryly gibed. “But I just…” she stepped closer, taking his hand again and treasuring the warmth, “I think that what you’re doing is the most noble, caring, beautiful response to what your unit did for you.”  She kept her eyes on their interlocked hands. “And I’m glad I got to be some kind of unintentional part of it.”

“Tasha,” he whispered.

“Promise me you’ll be back,” she pleaded.

He rested his hand on her cheek, bringing their faces close, a hair’s breadth from touching. “I promise,” he breathed, closing the distance.

It was better than that day in the barn. She wanted it now. Wanted it more than anything in the world.

His lips were just as soft, just as gentle. She folded into them, moving together in perfect connection. He threaded his fingers into her hair and she wound her arms around his neck, bringing him even closer.

She pulled back to breathe, and found herself giving in to a small giggle. He chuckled back, a grin plastered on his face, eyes dreamy and dilated. She kissed him again, reveling in the sensation that spread from her cheeks to her toes. She was warm all over and growing increasingly so.

A tug in her gut evolved into pooled heat in her lower abdomen as his hands roamed her back, pressing her to his broad chest. She played with the hair on the nape of his neck and gasped as his lips dropped to her throat. She felt his own arousal straining against his trousers, causing her to moan.    

He braced an arm behind her, lifting her onto her tiptoes. And in one swift motion, he dipped her, sweeping her feet out from under her and scooping her up into his arms.

She shrieked with delight as she draped her arms around his shoulders and let him carry her bridal style up the stairs, kicking off her heels in the process.

When they got to the top, though, he hesitated, looking down at her for instruction.

“Your room,” she decided, barely recognizing her voice with how breathy it had become.

He kissed her in answer and shoved the door open with his foot. He spun around with her in his arms, laughing at the way her blown eyes lit up. He was positively dizzy with love and happiness. By her smile, he’d guess she was too.

*

He laid her on the bed, the springs singing out their protest at the combined weight when he crawled on top of her.

She drew him down for a kiss, her lips getting hungrier, craving his. He slanted his mouth over hers, tasting her. Then he felt her tongue on his lower lip, a question. And he permitted her entrance without any hesitancy. She ran her tongue over his, feeling him moan against her mouth. His hands ran down her sides and she couldn’t stop herself from squirming.

He dropped his mouth to her throat again, trailing upwards to the junction of her ear and jaw.

“Clint,” she gasped. He gave her a quick peck in response, cheeky grin spreading over his face. She kissed it off of him.

His hand ran back up her waist, changing course so that it trailed over her abdomen and on to cup her breast. She wanted to berate him for that but found the liquid heat dampening her panties took away any of the venom.

She retaliated by going to work on his clothes. She shed his suit jacket, tossing it onto the floor, and then slipped off his suspenders so that they dangled at his hips. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt and with them undone she shucked the fabric and pitched it towards her previous toss. She peeled off his ribbed undershirt with a frustrated madness at how many layers it had taken to get his torso bare. But the reward was worth it.

Warm, tanned skin stretched out over toned muscles like some lost work of Rodin. Scars marred the surface in various shades of time. The whiter ones she suspected came from his father, and the pink were from the war. Her hand slid down his side and found the burn mark from where The Commandant had put out his cigarette. It hit her then that she hadn’t seen Clint smoke since the night he told her.

He caught her roaming hand in his, and brought it up to his lips for a kiss. She cupped his face in her hands and pulled him down for more, suddenly needing his lips on hers. He pulled back gently and breathed in her ear, “Your turn.”

She didn’t have time to process what he meant by that before she was flipped over, lying on top of him. The sight of him shirtless, his suspenders hanging from his hips, and stretched out on the bed almost stunned her. She braced her hands on either side of his face as his ventured down her back, carefully slipping free the row of buttons and dragging the fabric slowly downward. She helped him pull the dress off her body and watched as his eyes took her in.

His warm calloused hands made their way to her silk slip and removed it from her hips in a single tug. Sitting up so she was practically kneeling in his lap, he rolled down her nylons to her knee, patiently waiting for her to lift up so he could take them all the way down. She braced her weight on his shoulders and complied, getting an open mouthed kiss to a spot just above her naval in return.

He flicked her stockings off her feet and let them float to the ground beside the bed. He ran his hands up her legs on the insides of her thighs and she felt herself tremble in anticipation. He traced the edge of her panties with a single finger, dipping under the fabric where it wrapped around her legs, all while placing open-mouth kisses to her abdomen. She gasped and dug her nails into his shoulders. He moaned at that, the sound traveling in deep vibrations through her skin. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her panties, he slipped the material off her down to her knees.

She was wet, dripping wet. Her body was begging for him to enter her.

His hand running down her back and to her ass had her arching her back, thrusting out her breasts. Clint mouthed them through the fabric of her bra and all she could do was think about how amazing it felt.

She kissed him hard on the mouth, shoving him back on the bed. He moaned from somewhere deep in his chest, making her smile against his lips. She memorized how he tasted, savoring the flavor.

His hands had found her bra and dexterous archer’s fingers had it undone like a magician escaping from handcuffs. He tossed it aside and cupped one breast in his hand, testing the weight, bouncing it for play. His thumb ran over her sensitive nipple, teasing the peaked flesh relentlessly. He pinched it, rolled it, and she was forced to remove herself from his mouth to cry out with pleasure. He took that opportunity to pluck the other nipple into his mouth, lathing it with his tongue.

“Clint,” she panted, pleasure building up tight in her. “God, Clint!”

He gripped her arms in his hands and turned them over again. She was naked under him, primed and sensitive. The rough fabric of his pants caught uncomfortably against her overly stimulated skin. Deciding they must go she helped him with his belt buckle and fly, tearing off his slacks and shorts in one desperate pull.

There was a pause, no more than a second, maybe two, when they both looked at each other. He saw a remarkable, strong woman, gorgeous and naked underneath him in more ways than just her exposed skin. She saw all the love and kindness that had been ripped from her by the world, wrapped up in resilient muscles and warm flesh. And in the next instant, they were united.

She cried out at the way he filled her, stretched her. And then he was moving, pumping into her achingly slow, taking his time in bringing her to her release. She matched his movements with her own and the sheer pleasure of it was almost too much to handle.

His lips found hers, her neck, her shoulder. He kissed and sucked, leaving pleasant little bruises there for her to find tomorrow.

The intensity increased as she got closer. She bent her knees more, locking her heels behind his legs. It changed their angle, and soon every one of his strokes was sending ripples of pleasure through her.

She screamed his name and every senseless thing that came to her mind. Some of it was in Russian, some in German, some in languages in which she’d forgotten she’d been trained to know words.

She snapped, floating in some ethereal space as her orgasm gripped her. She clung to Clint like he was the only thing in the world and soon he was shuttering against her, crying out. He collapsed on her, and she found herself adoring the weight. 

And then there was nothing but their heavy breathing and utter exhaustion.

After a moment, Clint rolled off, lying flat on his back beside her, chest heaving. She watched each breath stretch his ribs and abdomen and tried not to think about the puncture wound on his lung. The scar was shiny with sweat in the moonlight from the window.

His arm coming to wrap around her shoulders and pull her into his side, broke her reverie. He kissed her forehead and she curled up next to him, draping an arm over his chest. She dropped a kiss to his shoulder and felt more than heard him chuckle.

As she brought up the blankets to cover them he panted, “Tasha,” and tightened his hold on her. “Oh, God, Tasha, I…” he swallowed hard. He didn’t finish and she was grateful. She knew what he was going to say and she couldn’t hear that. Not yet. She knew it was true, felt the same way. But she couldn’t cement it in words. His fingers lazily trailing up her bare back were close enough for her.

She rested her head on his shoulder, turning her face into the hollow created by the curve of his neck. “Clint,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” was the languid reply.    

She wanted to tell him to stay, but she knew that wasn’t fair. So she let it drop and waited for him to fall asleep. She counted the time between his breaths, felt her own exhaustion creeping up on her. And when he was lightly snoring she gripped his shoulder gently and made her plea. “Please don’t leave,” she begged. He made no reply so she snuggled in closer and breathed in his scent as she drifted off.

*

 

He woke up to sunlight and warmth nestled against him. His arm was draped over Natasha’s waist, her back pressed up against his chest tightly. He inhaled the sweet floral scent of her shampoo, memorizing how it felt to have his face buried in her red curls. He didn’t want to leave.

But had to. He wasn’t finished yet, had people to repay.  

Carefully, as not to wake the breathtaking woman beside him, he removed his arm from around her, and slipped silently off the bed. Pulling on his canvas pants and an Army T-shirt, he grabbed his bag and bow case from under the bed and stuffed the first full with the few things he’d brought. He cleared out the bathroom drawer next then crept down the stairs, heart sinking with every step.

He reached in his bag and pulled out the canvas roll that housed his knives, selecting the one she favored most, and set it on the kitchen table. He scribbled a note and laid it next to the knife, wishing that it would be enough.

With quiet footsteps and a breaking heart, he shut the door behind him and began his walk to the nearest highway.

 

Natasha opened her eyes lazily, still worn out from the activities of the previous night. She felt warm and content nestled up in the sun-dappled sheets. They smelled like her renter: leather and bow oil, something rich and musky that was just him.

She rolled over expecting to feel the smooth, taunt skin of his chest, but found only empty space and cooling sheets. She sat up, looking around the room for any trace of him. Her mind tried to quell her worry by suggesting that he was only outside taking care of the chickens and the calf.

But the lack of clothes laying on the floor and the bellowing coming from the barn outside dampened that theory.

“Clint,” she called as she slipped from the bed, wrapping herself in the tangled, sweaty sheet. There was no answer even as she repeated his name from the top of the stairs. She ran down them, opening the door expecting to see his muddy boots on the porch. But there was nothing there except newly painted planks and a few dirt clods from where they’d fallen off the heels of the shoes that should be there.

She came back inside feeling empty and chilled from the early spring air catching the moisture on her skin and in her hair. She needed to shower, to fix breakfast, to do laundry – it was Saturday after all and that was laundry day, right? But she couldn’t move.

She sat down at the table and stared at the single thing on its surface. She picked up the knife and note that accompanied it, read it, reread it, and with a deep sigh she placed it back on the table.

He’d be back.

She’d get this place going, find a job, keep her head high. And all the while she’d keep that note with her, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'll put in a request to take it easy on me; it's my first time writing a love scene.) 
> 
> So they finally did it! And then, yes, I really am that cruel. But there's more to the story, so stick around. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. It helps me continue to fight the fight that is writing. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter contains racist remarks. I have period-typical racism tagged. I'm apologizing, and I'm warning you. Again, please don't take away my cookie. I'm sorry.

1951

 

 **She stacked the** papers that were strewn about on Pepper’s desk and dropped them in the appropriate file. It had been a long day at Stark Industries, but working as an assistant to VP Virginia “Pepper” Potts, had excellent merits. One being shorter hours and the other being better pay. It was almost perfect really.  

“Hey, Red, you doing anything tonight?”

Almost.

“I’m afraid I’m all booked up, Tony,” she addressed the man before shoving past him where he hung off the office door.

“Aww, c’mon, Red. Have some fun for once. I know I will be.” He waggled his brows.

“I’d like to remind you, you are in a committed relationship with my boss.”

Tony frowned but shook it off quickly, following after her. “Never hurts to test the waters.”

“It’ll hurt if she finds out.” She smirked at the billionaire and he smiled back.

He shrugged. “Fair point. I guess my skills will just have to be rusty.”

“Pepper will be so proud your womanizing ways have fallen by the wayside,” she ribbed. “Of course, I’m sure you’ve gained experience in other areas.”

“Touché, ‘Natalie’.” He put his fingers in air quotes before tipping his hat to her in defeat. It had been a stressed point to change her name to something more decidedly American. Stark Industries dealt with powerful people, powerful governments, and with the nationwide Red Scare, she’d thought it safer if her name invoke less feelings of Mother Russia.

Stark’s eyes glinted as he powered on. “But seriously, if you’re not doing anything fun tonight, come out to drinks with Pepper, Bruce, Rhodey, and me. It’ll be a blast.”

“Pass, but thank you anyway.” She stopped walking. They were by a display case in the office and something there caught her eye.

In amongst the numerous trading cards all presenting various positions and poses there was a newcomer. A card that was very familiar.

“Is this one new?” she asked.

Tony huffed. “Yeah. Dad’s had it for awhile. Finally added it to his collection.”

“Where’d he get it?”

“Some pawn shop in town. Said the guy had no idea what he had. It’s from the limited Paris run before the tour was canned.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me guess, you’re a fan of Captain Spangles too. Is it the abs?” He bit out sarcastically, “I think it was the abs for Dad too.” 

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

“Oh he’s fine. ‘Perfect,’ even. Isn’t that why everyone loves him?”

Natasha bit her lip. She knew Tony resented Captain America because of how much his father praised the hero over his own son. It had to be painful to have a display case in the office that idolized someone that wasn’t him. Not even Tony’s college diploma got that honor, despite him earning it at sixteen. In fact, part of the reason Tony gave Pepper the VP position was so he wouldn’t have to face his father every day.

“Oh, there you are,” a timid voice stated. Both Natasha and Tony turned around to see Bruce Banner walking towards them, cleaning his glasses on his shirt as he did so. Tony clamped Bruce on the shoulder when he was finally close enough. “Glad you decided to come,” he exuberated.

Bruce put his glasses on. “You threatened to expose me to gamma radiation if I didn’t.”

Nat shot Tony a look that he waved off. “I wouldn’t really do that. Well, not _a lot_ of gamma, anyways.” 

Both Bruce and Natasha shook their heads. “Are you joining us, Miss Rushman?” Bruce inquired.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get home. I have a farmhand who would like to be paid before he leaves for the weekend. But you two have fun.”

Tony shrugged, adding a, “suit yourself,” before dragging poor Bruce with him, talking his ear off about the potentials of gamma radiation exposure. She smiled gently after them before turning back to the cards in the case. The new one stuck out with pride.

“So that’s what you sold,” she murmured softly. Her fingers wrapped around the teardrop ruby hanging about her neck.

Four years and she’d still received no word from him. But she kept that piece of paper tucked into the frame of her dresser mirror. She hadn’t lost hope that he’d keep his promise.

She took one last look at the card in the display case. It had been expertly preserved, but she knew one of the corners had a dot of blood on the backside. He’d sold his last reminder of Phil for her. Dug up what they had buried in the snow and frozen ground…for her.

“Oh, Clint,” she muttered. Her hand tightened around her necklace before she descended the stairs to exit into the employee lot.  

 

She pulled up the gravel drive only to find another car parked in her usual spot. It wasn’t Sam’s; he parked his truck behind the barn on days he worked.

It was a new model, black and sleek, polished to within an inch of its life. The added chrome accents on the back gave the illusion of the taillights forming fins off the side of the body. It was a nice car, too nice to be out here on the farm. And the Maryland plates had her instantly on guard.

She opened the front door with her nerves steeled for the inevitable course this visit was going to take.

And she couldn’t say she hadn’t been warned.

Sam was leaning up against the kitchen counter, arms folded over his chest, brown eyes sharp and alerted. Natasha’s gaze dropped to the two gentlemen in dark suits seated at the table.

“Welcome home,” Sam greeted flatly. Natasha knew that tone. He always got it when someone made a comment about how a man of his “origin” wasn’t worth the ground he walked on. Bullshit, really. Sam Wilson was the hardest working man she knew, employed on three farms and still taking monthly visits to Atlanta to tend to his ailing mother.  

The men stood up at her entrance, dark suits and sharp ties dull in comparison to their beady eyes.

“Gentlemen,” she addressed.

One took off his hat. “Ma’am.” He brought out a piece of metal from his pocket and flashed it at her. She assumed it was his identification. “I’m Agent Gries with the FBI. This is Agent Newmn.”

She set her handbag down on the bench that sat under the coat rack. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Agent Gries stepped forward, pulling papers out of his inner suit pocket. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“What?” Sam exclaimed. “On what grounds?”

“Suspect of Soviet allegiances and illegal intelligence gathering,” Newman snapped back.

“That’s crazy!” Sam went on.

Natasha kept quiet, but her eyes narrowed at the men before her. “You must have one hell of a creative theory to try and make those charges stick.”

Gries smirked. “Well it’s good enough for this,” he reached again into his jacket and pulled out another paper. “Search warrant.”

Nat pressed her lips into a line as she looked over the paper. “Good luck,” she stated. “You won’t find anything.”

The two agents shared a look, a nod on Newman’s part. Gries produced a bulky radio from off the table and spoke into it with a crackle of static. “Have at it, guys.”

And within seconds the place was swarming with men in suits and sunglasses. They turned over tables, ripped upholstery, smashed mirrors. They rummaged through the kitchen cabinets scattering dishes and cookware. They even raided the icebox.

A terrible crunching noise from outside had her darting to her front door. Three men stood there with crowbars, ripping up the porch planks one by one.

“Stop,” Natasha yelled. “What are you-”

“We have authorization,” Newman cut her off. Nat tightened her muscles and sent her fist flying straight for his broad jaw. The connection yielded one amazing crack and whether it was in her hand or his face she wouldn’t know until hours later once the adrenaline wore off.

She kicked Newman’s shin, punched his gut, and sent an upper cut to his nose when he doubled over. Gries gripped her from behind, hands locking around her waist.

Natasha lashed out, connecting her feet on Newman’s torso and using the leverage to push back and throw Gries to the floor, landing on top of him. He groaned loudly at the impact but his grip didn’t waver and Nat felt herself being dragged to her feet. Her head smacked against the doorframe as she struggled.

Standing again, still with Gries holding her down, arms pinned, she glared daggers at the other agent. Newman slapped her, his gaudy gold ring – what a stupid thing to wear as an agent – caught her skin and split it open.

“Hey!” Sam yelled, coming for him. The suit pulled back his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster and accompanying pistol. “Watch it, kid.”

“Let me go, you rat bastards,” Nat screamed, trying to drown out the sound of her house being shredded, of all the work her renter had put into it going to waste.

“You heard the woman,” Sam said, putting up the kitchen knife he’d pulled from the floor.

Newman pulled his gun. “Easy, slick. Trust me; I’ve got no problem shooting a Negro.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on the knife.

“Let it go, Sam,” Natasha instructed. Her green eyes were sharp with resentment.

Sam gave her a look of disbelief but eventually dropped the knife.

“Good choice, son.” Newman turned to Gries. “Take her.”

Natasha didn’t make it easy for them to wrestle her into the backseat of the shiny car, kicking and wiggling in their hold. Before the door shut she caught sight of Sam glaring intensely at the agents. “Take care of things here,” she called out. He gave her a single nod.

By the time the car pulled out, the porch was destroyed and she could see the agents making their way to the barn. When they got to the end of the driveway, a burlap sack was dropped over her head.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we found out what Clint sold. Nat found a job. And, oh yeah, the freaking government took Natasha! Also, Sam! He's so awesome. :) Plus Tony and Bruce. PARTY! 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking!! See you next week!


	19. Chapter 19

**She sat alone** in the interrogation room, hands cuffed around a bar through the table. She was freezing; her legs were stiff. They were trying to make her uncomfortable so she’d talk quicker was her guess. _Well they better show up soon,_ she thought. _I really have to pee._

At last the door opened and in walked yet another man in a trimmed suit with a black tie. He had a handful of files that he slapped down on the table in an attempt to intimidate her. It didn’t work.

He took a seat, undoing his jacket button, and leaning back in his chair.

“I expect to be compensated for the damage done to my property,” Natasha stated flatly, her eyes never moving from the newcomer’s face. He was generic, unassuming, a receding hairline and dark, hard eyes.

“You work for Stark, sweetcheeks. I think you can pay for it on your own.”

She didn’t reward him with any kind of response.

“Speaking of, Howard and Tony are only a small sample of the interesting web of contacts you have.”

“If you’re trying to get industry insight from me, I’m afraid my contract states I cannot discuss any of my work for Stark Industries without a lawyer present.” She crossed her legs while the agent smirked.

“You think you own this, don’t you,” he tried. “You think you can turn this on me.” He leaned in, eyes narrowing. “You can’t.”

She shrugged.

The agent opened the first file in his stack. “Natalia Alianovna Romanova. That’s quite the handle.” He quirked a brow at her. She stayed still. “Your husband was an interesting man. He had a lot of interesting contacts too.” The agent pulled out a picture of Captain America, decked in stars and stripes saluting. “Funny. They’re all dead now.”

“You trying to blame me for the death of America’s golden boy?”

“No,” the agent drawled. “No, I’m here to find every last shred of evidence that I could use against you. See, Natalia, I want you put away. Nothing personal, but I’m on a mission to purify this nation. Now, I killed Nazis. I hunted Commies hiding on our soil. Even took down a ring of up-coming Hydra goons. So you can see where I’m up for a promotion. All I need is something to swing me up there. And that, my friend, is you.”

“You’re really going to try and make me out to be a communist?” she arced a dubious brow.

“No, ma’am. I’m going to make you a Soviet spy.”

She shot an incredulous look. “And how do plan to do that?”

“By getting you to admit to every charge I put in front of you.” He laid out a pen for her before opening up another file. He didn’t set it down, just held it open, reading it over. “Handsome guy,” he commented snidely. He pulled the paper clipped photo from the manila folder and turned it around to show her.  

Natasha felt her heart skip a beat.

“It was those blue eyes, wasn’t it?” He glanced at the picture, but kept it facing her. He returned his gaze to the file. “Clinton Francis Barton. Special Forces.” A snide grin. “Bit of a troublemaker. Says he got his whole team killed.”

Ignoring his jab, Natasha remained unwavering. “And what does my previous renter have to do with anything?”

“Oh,” the agent leaned in, “he’s everything, Natalia. See, I know you know about the Beta list. I know you know he was on it. That means you and I both have a pretty good idea what someone might pay to have him put in a lab and…utilized. And, reminder, we _are_ in the middle of police action in Korea that would most certainly benefit from having a super solider on the front line. Assuming he survived the operation, of course.”

Natasha stared blankly, but inside she was screaming. All she wanted to do was put the pen on the table through this man’s eye socket.  

“Now,” the agent went on, “I don’t want that. I want Mr. Pretty Blue Eyes to go on with his life as he is. And I can make sure it stays that way, promotion pending. So if you could just put your signature right…” he dug out another paper, slapped it down in front of her, “here, I’ll personally make sure no harm comes to ‘your previous renter.’”    

She stared at the confession in front of her but made no move for the pen. “Why me?” she asked after a moment.

The agent leaned back in his chair. Putting his hand up in the air he outlined, “Captain America’s Best Friend Married to Soviet Spy.” He smiled slyly, “Makes for a remarkable headline. The kind of story that would get me that promotion. So,” he indicated the paper, “do we have a deal?”

Natasha reached for the pen slowly. What did it matter really? So some greedy agent got moved up in his office. So some paper ran a story that slandered Captain America. If it kept Clint safe…

She placed the pen tip on the paper.

The door slammed open. A blur streaked across the room and in the next instant the agent was slumped in his chair, an arrow stuck to his neck, blue lightning pulsing through his body. Natasha’s gaze spun around and she felt her heart stop.

“Clint?” she tried to choke out but found the word was too pale, too quiet to even be heard.

He gave her his signature smirk. “Miss me?”

She didn’t respond, couldn’t, the shock still gripping her.

His hands made quick work of the cuffs securing her to the table and he pulled her to her feet.

“We have to go.”

She nodded but her mind was still trying to grasp that he was here, that he’d shot a man, that…

They ran through the office, weaving into back hallways and ducking into empty offices. They came out in an alleyway where a car was waiting for them. The man behind the wheel was familiar and only added to her confusion.

“Hey, Natasha,” Sam greeted.

“Drive,” Clint ordered as soon as they both slid into the backseat. Sam peeled out, weaving into traffic and taking a random exit, backtracking.

It was a good half hour before Clint declared them clear and Sam seemed to relax behind the wheel. Clint turned to Nat and gave her a humorless smile. “Hi, Nat.”

She slapped him.

“Ow! What the?”

But she had her lips on his instantly, making up for lost time. The kiss grew into something deeper, hotter, before Sam’s throat clearing brought either of them out of their own world.

“Well that-”

“Four years, Clint!” she yelled. “Not a word. And then I get taken in by the FBI and you show up and kill him-”

“-I did not-”

“-and, and, what the hell is Sam doing driving the getaway car?”

Clint put his hands on her upper arms to get her to calm down. “Listen, Tasha.”

She locked her eyes on his, feeling somewhat soothed at the familiarity of his beautiful eyes.

“I was finishing up the list, was on the last one. It was in Florida. Mac, a damn good mechanic, had left behind a pregnant wife and two kids. Okay? So his wife and I were picking oranges out back when suddenly she drops dead, bullet to the head. I dove to cover and would have most likely been sniped off by the shooter, but freaking Peggy Carter was following me and she took him out.

“I wasn’t safe anymore; I was being targeted. So she offered me protection within the SSR. And after a few more pot shots from rogue Hydra wannabe’s I signed up to just join Peggy’s organization. Hunt the bastards that were hunting me kind of thing.” He dropped his hands to hers. “I tried to come back; I really did. But it wasn’t safe. I would’ve led them straight to you and I couldn’t…”

She put her hand on his cheek, reveling in the comforting warmth there. He leaned into her touch, grateful for it.

Sam cleared his throat again. “You forgot the best part,” he teased.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I sent Sam here to look out for you. Not that I didn’t think you couldn’t handle it, just you know, so _I’d_ know at least someone was keeping an eye out.” 

Sam filled in, “I was part of the beta list for the next Captain America. So you know, I was qualified.”

“I thought all the other betas were taken out,” Nat reasoned.  

Clint nodded. “They were. Sam’s placement on the list fell through before the spy got it.”   

“Turns out one of my recommendations came from some Hydra bastard. I was under inspection when the shit hit the fan.”        

Nat nodded as the car bumped along down a city street. She assumed they were in Maryland. She hadn’t kept her bearings while under the burlap sack, but the driving distance sure felt that long.

“What about that agent,” she inquired, the sight of him suddenly dawning on her.

“Agent Garrett,” Clint responded. “He was on the course to being a general before being dishonorably discharged for an unauthorized attack on some local village. He thought there were Nazi weaponry designs hiding there.” He paused, shaking his head. “Bombed a schoolhouse. ‘Course, the FBI turned a blind eye when he started bringing in Soviet spies hidden in their ranks.”

“He’s been in the SSR’s sights for a while now,” Sam added. “We just needed a reason to take him down.”

“You killed him?” Nat inquired.

Clint shook his head. “Stunned him. But a group of agents were behind us to clean up the mess.” He pulled one of her loose curls into his grip, twining it around his fingers. “We had to get you out.”

She watched him play with her hair. She still couldn’t believe everything that had happened in the last forty minutes. Hell, the last few hours. Her home was a wreck, her farm hand was a secret agent, and Clint was back, before her and playing with her hair like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

“So where to now,” she asked quietly.

“We have a safe house prepared,” Sam answered. “We’ll stay there until Peggy checks in and gives us new orders.”

The rest of the ride was silent. But her hand stayed in Clint’s the entire time and she felt like she could once more breathe.

 

The safe house was in Delaware, off the coast, and tucked away into a safe little cape. It would have been a lovely area to explore if it wasn’t still early spring and raining.

The cottage looked more like a vacation home than some secret spy getaway. Then again, Natasha wasn’t sure what the latter was supposed to look like anyway.

She was exhausted, and after a warm shower, she threw on the clothes Clint had given her – somewhat delighted to see that they were his – and curled up on the couch in the living area. Clint brought her a fresh cup of coffee and sat beside her with his arm draped over the back of the sofa so she could neatly curl into his side. He kissed the top of her head, mumbling, “Missed you.” She hummed contentedly.

Sam came in from outside, dripping wet and sloshing mud from his boots. “Perimeter secure,” he announced, kicking off his Wellies and hanging up the rain slicker. “Now if you don’t mind; I’m going to take a shower.”

Clint nodded in response.

“Don’t be bothered to get up now,” he teased lightly, taking in their comfortable position.

She waited until she heard the water running in the small bathroom before she sat up and faced Clint. “So you’re with the SSR, huh?”

“Guilty.” He tightened his hold on her. “It’s not a bad gig, Nat. A lot of good people doing good work, saving lives, making the world a safer place.”

“Like a continuation of the list.“

He hummed deep in his chest. “Never thought of it that way. But, yeah. Yeah it is.”

She curled back up in his side, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. “So what’s next?”

“We wait for Peggy’s orders and then go from there.”

“I meant…I mean, I can’t just go back home. They destroyed the farm. All the money I have saved up would go to rebuilding it… again.”

He let out a snort that was part laughter part anger at the actions done against her. But they both fell silent and Natasha was still waiting for an answer to her question. It seemed like she wasn’t going to get one when he sighed. “I don’t know, Tasha.” He kissed the top of her head. “I want to be with you. God knows I want to be with you. But…”

“But?”

“But the SSR is important too. What we do, it… well, it evens out my ledger. Gives me a fighting chance at…at peace. At feeling okay about myself. When some mad scientist, or crazy mercenary gets put behind bars, I feel like I made a difference. Like it matters, like I matter. Like-”

“Like Phil would be proud?”

He looked down at her, met her eyes. “Yes.” They stared at each other for a moment before Clint took in a breath, framed Nat’s face in his broad hands. He drew her in for a gentle kiss, reveling in how right and familiar it felt. When they pulled away he rested his forehead on hers and pleaded, “Come with me. Join the SSR and we’ll help take down the bad guys together.”

She narrowed her brows. “Me?”

“Yeah. I know you can throw knives. You speak – what? – three languages?”

“Seven.”

“Seven!” His brows disappeared into his hairline.

She nodded, giving him a knowing grin.

“There. And you can hold your own and are a real quick study. Tasha, you could be a fantastic agent.” He took her hands in his, pulled them up to his lips and pecked each one. “Will you think about it?”

His eyes were wide with hope, begging like a puppy looking for scraps at the table.

She thought over the offer. Other than somehow tendering her resignation at Stark Industries, she really had no tethers. Her home was destroyed, her farm hand an agent. She could take this if she wanted. And after a moment of thought and consideration she found that she did. She’d been trained, tailored, her whole life to be a housewife. Now was her chance to break free of that, to do something worthy. And maybe there was a little bit of a ledger of her own to balance. Things she had done for her training that could use a little positive black in place of negative red.

She wrapped her arms around Clint’s neck and pulled him down for a firm kiss. “Yes,” she whispered against his lips. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may all breathe once more. Clint has returned and they are together at last! 
> 
> But wait...there's one more chapter left.   
> And true to Marvel fashion it is a post-credits scene. So hit that next chapter button. ->


	20. Chapter 20

1960

 

 **He watched Agents** Barton and Romanov – no, now Barton and Barton – through the scope of his rifle, and briefly wondered if anyone would find a sense of irony in the archer being sniped. A sniper offing another sniper. A bullet to take out the arrow.

He’d have to be fast as lightning. One shot. Both heads. One to the blonde same to the redhead. His mind pondered the look of red blood on red hair. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the subject of such a sight. He knew that now.

He knew a lot of things now.

They’d taught him, revealed to him the truths the Allies kept hidden behind closed office doors and in leather wallets. They made him believe them. They told him what was true and after awhile he started to believe them without much effort.

Their methods weren’t perfect; he knew that; he knew that by the flashes of contradiction he’d seen when processing information they’d downloaded into his head. Like Agent Romanov-Barton. She was more than an SSR agent and Red Room trainee.

She was a murderer.

Her first spouse was found in a ravine. The red from his body was found on her hands. But she had no recollection of how it got there. Red Room took that away from her.

He understood that now.

Hydra had washed red from his hands and mind too.

But like with Romanov, it was never perfect. Ghosts remained.

And it was these ghosts that had him taking a second look through the scope into the quaint rural farmhouse here on the Iowan plains. They’d retired here, gone to ground here three years ago when the redhead had gotten pregnant.

Six years of loyal service and unmatched skill rewarded with a clean break from their secretive occupation. How nice that must be.

The targets had yet to line up. The redhead came into view of the window carrying an excited, flame-haired toddler. She set the boy down, and watched as he took shaky steps across the wooden floor. The child waddled over to another waiting set of arms. The blonde archer grasped his son the second the boy made it over to the other side. He lifted him up, spun him around, and beamed at the squeals of joy on the toddler’s face.

The woman joined them, resting a hand on her abdomen where the barest hint of a bump was beginning to show.

An emotion rocketed through him that he was unfamiliar with. A quick rundown of the list of things he was allowed to feel proved to be unhelpful, so he switched to the illegal list.

Jealousy.

Anger.

What in the scene could possibly drudge up such feelings? He suppressed them at finding no answer and looked through the scope again.

The targets were lined up. All he needed to do was take the shot.

His finger twitched on the trigger. He let go.

Jealousy. Anger. Yes, of course! Romanov. _His_ Romanov. The woman he’d married in some other lifetime. The woman who he’d shared his home, his life with. The woman who failed to give him any children.

And yet this archer now had two.

It seemed so unfair. Why should this man take what was his and claim it as his own?

He moved his rifle so that it lined up with the archer’s head. He would go first. That thieving bastard…

That was not his order.

Both agents. One shot. Take the kid.

Hydra wanted new agents. Who better than the product of two bright SSR agents? Take what they have so foolishly made. Reprogram it to their needs. Isn’t that what they did to him?

He took a deep breath and waited. He ignored the grass scratching at his arm and belly. The metal appendage didn’t feel anything. He didn’t feel anything. His arm might have been the only part that shone in the sun, but he was all metal. Steel. Nothing got to him.

Anger. Jealousy.

Sorrow.

This could have been him. His life with the redhead could have held children and a working farm and happy moments spent in the living area scooping up a toddler and holding him close, protecting him from the terrible world. Natasha would never have to know about the red on her hands: all the men they’d had her kill before claiming her to be a programmed commodity and shipping her off to America.

But something had happened that her programming failed and she simply was a girl with homemaker skills and no trigger words – his first target had been the man that deprogrammed her; damn the Agent Fury! He’d found the man had been working undercover as a dockhand, deprogramming many of the agents the Red Room sent over. But now the eye-patched man was resting in the bottom of the ocean. Agents Barton and Barton were next.

A breath. A long, slow breath.

At last. They lined up. He rested his finger on the trigger. This was it. The end of the SSR’s greatest legacy aside from Captain America himself.

 _Steve_.

The blonde twirled the redhead and brought her into his arms; their son danced at their feet before crawling over to where a yellow dog lay on the rug.

The shot couldn’t be any more perfect. TAKE IT!

His finger could not move.

She was so happy. This archer made her smile and beam and dance. She was truly happy with him.

 _Steve wouldn’t want you to stop that_ , some small part of his mind reasoned. He hated that part. But it showed up again and again and again. It was the one thing Hydra couldn’t wipe out.

TAKE. THE. SHOT!

And that was it. He wouldn’t take the shot and end this. He couldn’t.

Couldn’t.

He took out a radio from his pouch and dialed the secure number.

“This is Winter Soldier. Erroneous intel. Targets not present.”

He waited for the response. Static. A disappointed sigh.

“Then your mission is a failure. Come back to base for corrective action.”

The Winter Soldier nodded. He expected nothing less.  

He glanced once again through his scope and memorized the way the lamps softened the redhead’s face, the way the archer splayed his well-worked hand on her lower back, and the unbridled joy on their son’s young features. He closed his eyes and started to pack up.

With everything on his back and ready to go, he mussed up the grass to erase the outline of his body. No one would know he was there.

And as he left he heard that part of his mind once more.

_Steve would be proud._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats, you made it to the end of Room for Rent! Next week I'll be posting a one-shot that was inspired by a comment by WickedSweetSalt and sort of fits in with the whole 1940s Clintasha thing. 
> 
> Update on IoMB part 2.5 and 3: Part 2.5 will be called "That's What Friends Are For" and should be posted some time in October. I plan to have part 3 done by November, college workload pending. Thank you all so much for your patience. I know I've made you wait far too long for this story, but blame homework and an unfortunate sabbatical of my muse. In the meantime, though, I have two unrelated one-shots that I'll post randomly to kind of tide you over. The first one is called "Waverly, IA" and the second is "The Ex-Wife." Please accept these as peace offerings. ;)
> 
> Once again, as always, thank you so, so very much to everyone for reading, commenting, Kudos-ing, and bookmarking. You are what makes this possible. :)   
> Until next time,   
> \- Z-socks.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!  
> Here is the first chapter of Room for Rent. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Some chapters are rougher than others in content so I'll be posting additional warnings as they apply in the notes at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> I did research on this story but I'm not above saying there will still be errors. If you catch one, let me know. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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